Incipit Vita Nuova
by Samantha Bridges
Summary: Emily embarks on a path that will lead her to begin a new life, but will the GD be able to survive her changes? Third and final in the Emily Trilogy.
1. Storm

Lightning flickered and danced evilly in the sky as the thunder boomed along. _Danse macrebe_, Dr. Amelia Rinaldi told herself as she watched. Perfectly fitting for the upcoming holiday of Halloween. The wine in her glass vibrated, spreading concentric ripples through it as the peals rocked the house. Little Mischa was asleep in her room, able to sleep through everything. She on the other hand, was relegated to the living room in the huge old Victorian. She hugged a throw pillow tightly to her chest, wondering what was keeping him so late. Something was eating at her, gnawing away on tender memories. Something dark lurked in her palace halls, escaped from the dungeon. Another wicked flash as the lights flickered then plunged the house into darkness.

_Great, just great._ She dropped the pillow and stood from the couch, knocking her wine from the arm where it rested. Things can't get much worse. She found the five cell Maglight in the kitchen and thumbed the switch. A bright white beam illuminated the kitchen, and she felt a tiny stab of relief. She made her way to the garage, hoping that it was only a blown circuit. The door knob was cold against her palm, and the flashlight seemed to grow heavier in her hand. She tightened her grip on the cross-hatched aircraft aluminum, swearing that she would not drop the damned thing. Down the two wooden steps to the concrete floor of the garage. The chrome on the Lincoln glinted and winked at her in the dark. She found the fuse box and pried it open. A quick examination revealed that it was not a blown fuse.

A thump against the garage door startled Amelia, and the Maglight tried to jump from her hand. Chiding herself for being so skittish she swung the beam to the door. It illuminated nothing more ominous than the door itself. Slowly, she knelt next to the Lincoln, resting a hand against its cool exterior as she peered under the car. Again, nothing. Another rumble of thunder rolled through the house, and she glimpsed a flash of lightning through the tiny crack between the garage door and the floor. She rose, and turned back to the door, returning to the warmth inside.

She had been settled for about two minutes before she was overcome with the need to go outside. The thump that she had heard in the garage would not leave her mind. A check on the girls, still out cold, and she made her way to the door. She carried the Maglight with her, although she was unsure whether it was for protection or light. She looks at the bookshelf as she steps down into the front hall, pondering whether she should grab his Harpy. No, the Maglight should be enough of a weapon. A heavy waterproofed trench coat is slipped from its hanger in the closet and donned. It isn't hers, and the scent of her husband lingers strongly on the collar. The flash of lighting brings Amelia back to the here and now, and she grasps the knob on the front door.

Cold driving rain greets her as she steps out through the security door. Lightning still dances in the dark night sky, reflecting in her pupils. She has always feared lightning, and has always been awed by it. She gets her legs into motion, sticking close to the edge of the house. Lights are out all over the street, and she assumes a transformer must have been hit. The flashlight is thumbed on again, and she plays it across the driveway. As water worms its way down her collar she wishes she had brought an umbrella. Currently, she can do nothing more than hunch her shoulders and flip up the collar of the trench. A smile twists at the corners of her lips. Her husband would not be happy that his coat was getting drenched. The smile disappeared as her beam glinted off something by the garage.

Careful steps as she peers at the object. Horror draws down her features as she realizes what she is staring at. The glint was from a pair of eyes that stared back at her, glassy and unseeing. Wet fur lays plastered on the face, and on the rest of the body. A long tail lay out in a curve behind the body. A cat. Someone's cat. She knelt down, illuminated by the dancing lightning, and poked at the cat. Amelia reached a finger out to caress its fur, noting a strange color seeping across its chest. Blood. She drew back a finger wet in it. It was quickly washed away in the rain, but it wasn't washed from her memory. She stood shakily, leaning against the garage door for strength. Amelia jolts back from the door as another thump resounds above the peals of the thunder. She sees a trail of blood run down the white paint, quickly being washed away by the rain. Her eyes track to the object, and she knows even before it registers what it is. It's the cat's heart. Instinct draws her eyes away and across the street. A lone figure is barely visible in the middle of the asphalt. The Maglight comes up as she starts out across the driveway.

"Hey!" she cried, seeing the figure pause nervously then start to trot down the street. He breaks into a dead run as she gets halfway down the driveway. Grip firm on the Maglight, Amelia starts to run after him. She dashes unheedingly into the street, hears the car horn and turns, freezing like a deer in the headlights. She hears the bakes squeal on the wet pavement and she stares in disbelief as a bumper comes to a rest just inches from her leg. Amelia looks in the direction that the figure had run, then back at the car. The driver's side door is opening, and someone is emerging.

"Excuse me…" Adrenaline already pumping through her veins, Amelia drops the Maglight and runs back to the house. A grumble is heard as the man gets back in his car, pulling into the driveway behind her. The doors into the house are thrown open and she stumbles into the front hall. She can hear the car door slam outside as she hurriedly digs the Harpy from its hiding place, inside the fifth book on the first shelf. Her hands tremble as she whirls back to lock the door. Fingers fumble at the deadbolt as the door pushes open. A powerful figure pushes his way in and grabs for her.

Amelia feels the Harpy slide from her fingers as her wrists are grabbed and she is thrown against the closet door. It clatters noisily against the slate of the front hall. She squeezes her eyes shut and sobs as she feels pain in her wrists. Her right wrist was released, and the hand that held it was pressed against her cheek. She tried to pull away, but stopped as she felt the remaining grip loosen. She choked back a sob and opened her eyes, and almost fainted from the relief when she realized who her captor was. Dr. Antonio Rinadli let his wife collapse against him, holding her soaking figure tight. She sobbed against him, incomprehensible and distraught. He carefully leads her to the living room, settling her into the couch, murmuring soothingly before he let go to return to close the front door. The image is striking as he walks back into the living room, the lights choosing that moment to come back on. 

She is curled tightly on the white couch, lithe figure hidden inside his trench coat. Her honey colored hair lays in limp strands around her face. Dr. Rinaldi crosses the room to her, settling himself on the couch next to her and pulling her close. As the hours pass with them in this embrace she tells him about the evening. Soon, her words begin to trail off as her eyes begin to grow heavy. He is still whispering soothingly in her ear and stroking her wet hair as she falls asleep. Something dark has invaded his sweet, sweet wife's mind, and he was determined to discover what it was. Dr. Rinaldi pushes the thought aside as he rises from the couch. Amelia curls tighter as the warmth of his body leaves her. 

Carefully, he sits her upright and removes the trench from her shoulders. The silk blouse she wears beneath it clings tightly to her body. Warmth flows though him as he glimpses her curves and he pushes that thought aside as well. She is carefully lifted and held against his body as he stands with her. She is always so light in his arms, and now she is as limp as a wet rag doll. He carries her up the stairs, setting her in the dressing room chair as he begins to strip the cold and wet clothes from her body. She is cold to the touch and he briefly worries about hypothermia. He shakes her slightly, and rouses her from her sleep. She leans heavily against him as he leads her to the shower.

Dr. Rinaldi strips his own clothes as Amelia leans against the shower door. She can feel the warmth of the steam from the hot water within. She favors him with a wan smile as she he slips an arm around her for support as she slides the shower door open and steps inside. As tired as she was before, the shower only increases that feeling. Without her husband behind her she would probably slide ungracefully to the floor. She feels his strong hands as he massages the tense muscles in her neck and back. She feels her weighted lids begin to close again, and tries to fight it, since it would be undignified to fall asleep in the shower. Dr. Rinaldi feels her yawn and decides that the shower has lasted long enough. He keeps a firm grasp on her waist as he leans to shut off the faucet.

Amelia manages to towel herself off and slip into a pair of silk pajamas. She blinks sleepily as she watches him do the same, eyes trailing over his body. Even for a man his age, he is still in very good shape. She then allows herself to be guided back to her chair in the dressing area as her husband deftly sweeps her wet hair into a bun coiled on top of her head. She takes his elbow as they make their way to the bed. He tucks her in gently before he climbs in beside her. He feels her breathing slow and deepen as he slides an arm around her, spooning behind her. He takes a deep breath of the bare skin at the back of neck, right at the nape, letting himself be carried on the soft notes of her scent. He hopes that the shadow that she told him of doesn't plague her dreams.

*****


	2. Morning

Hello! Again, I haven't figured out how to put the disclaimers on the first chapter. As always, the Dashing Dr. Lecter is not mine. (how sad life is.) Emily and their lovely daughter do belong to me. Others, will probably be property of me. That's all. Short chapter, dear ones.

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The rain is gone from the San Francisco skyline when she rises the next morning. She carefully rolls out of bed, casting an eye at her sleeping husband before she slips from the room. Slippered feet pad down the hall, and she looks in on Mischa, still asleep in the early morning. Continuing downward, she reaches the foot of the stairs. Books are spread on the floor from her hasty search for the Harpy last night. The Harpy itself glints, open, on the slate tiles that line the front hall. What draws her eyes though, and her mind, is the spread of color on the floor before her. She had never really noticed the colors before, but they seize her attention now. Sunlight streams through the stained glass window that overlooks the front room, spilling out across the white carpet. Kneeling, she reaches out into a pool of red light, pale hand seeming to absorb the color as she watches. A twinge is felt deep in her heart, and she relates the color with a hunger. 

The feeling draws her to her feet as she slips to the hall to pluck the discarded Harpy from the stone. She looks at it, feeling the heft of it in her hand. Eyes locked on it, she returns to the pool of colored light and kneels again, within the light this time. Shades of red and purple cascade over her honey colored hair and pale, delicate features. The Harpy looks surreal in the red pool, and she lifts it to her lips, feeling the cool blade on warm flesh. The lips part and she runs her tongue across the back of the blade. Something slips in her consciousness, the knife slips along with it. The coppery taste of blood in her mouth causes her to blink. A drop of blood mars the blade of the Harpy. A memory flashes before her eyes.

_He presses a knife into her hands. The handle is warm from his pocket and she flips it open, flashing it in the light. _

"Nice." there is silvered light reflected on her face, playing across her lips.

"It is, isn't it? Now Emily, if I were to offer you the chance to have my blood would you?"

She looks at him, eyes glowing as she considers. "Your blood?"

"My blood Emily, my flesh as well, I believe you'd like that." His eyes flick to the blade, curved and wicked, then back to hers. Yes, he can see it now, emerging from the room in the palace where it was locked.

She considers silently then brings her legs up under her on the couch, crawls towards him. She lays the blade against his throat, drawing a drop of red. He watches her, not moving, making nary a sound. "Can you do it, Emily? Or will it make you every bit more of a monster to know that you killed me? Come now, your mother would be proud of you."

Her eyes reach into his, and she pauses, pressure constant on the knife. He can see the change in her face, as the realization hits her. He feels the blade leave his throat and sees her head drop, her breath warm against the cut. His breath catches as she pushes on it with cool fingers, easing the blood to her waiting tongue. It is a very provocative feeling to have her tongue on his throat. She pulls back from him, meets his eyes as she flings the knife across the room. There is a tiny drop resting on her lips and Dr. Lecter lays his index finger on it, taking it form her lips.

"Why didn't you do it, doctor?"

A drop falls from her lip to the pool on the white carpet, it blends in with the particular shade of red the light is. As if coming from a distance, she hears the same voice again. Calling her name, a gentle hand on her shoulder. Concern. 

"Emily, are you okay? Emily?"

She lifts her head slowly to look at the source of the voice. Something is sliding back into the shadows in her mind, watching from the safety of darkness. She meets the gaze of the man standing over her, but cannot speak, can only watch as he lowers himself to kneel beside her.

"Emily?" His eyes flick from her bleeding lip to the blade of his knife. He meets her eyes and sees something withdrawing in them. Something that rings very familiar to him. He reaches to her lips, touching the blood. Her fingers follow, and she draws them back and looks at the reddened fingertips. The look she gives him reaches deep into his soul, tearing at him. 

"Help me."

Dr. Hannibal Lecter gathers his wife into his arms, holding her close and tight against his body. His right hand runs through her hair, feeling the flaxen strands slide easily across his fingers.

"Oh, Emily."

*****


	3. Shadows

Two days had passed, and not a word of the morning incident was uttered between them. Life went on, more or less as usual. Certain things frightened her though, such as the cat. She followed her husband out into the drive that morning, helping him buckle Mischa into the carseat in the back of the Jaguar. She had paused at the front of the car, looking at the ground before the garage door. There was not trace of blood on the pristine white garage door, no trace on the concrete. No sign of the limp body, no sign of the heart that had been hurled at her moments after the cat's discovery. Nothing. She shivered as she stood in the warm sunlight, blinking and fighting the tears that were springing to her eyes. Her husband had caught the motion and had laid his hand on her shoulder once again.

"Emily?" She shook her head at him, bowing it in the sunlight, avoiding his eyes. He didn't pry, only kissed the top of her head before turning to leave. "Rest, Emily." She nodded acquiescence and watched as he slid into the driver's seat of the Jag. She remained motionless, unthinking, until the car had pulled from the drive and moved down the street quite a distance. No cat. She looked back and checked again, crouching with her left hand on the door for balance. Her right touched the concrete, still slightly cool in the morning hours. No blood, no heart, no cat. Maybe she was going crazy.

Now, she passed along the streets of the Financial District, making stops at their bank, the investment firm to talk with their broker, and little shops along the way. The skirt of her mint green sundress ruffled around her ankles, her face shaded by a straw hat and a pair of sunglasses. She heads down California Street, towards John Herman Plaza and the waterfront. The interior of the buildings that make up the Embarcadero are cool as she moves through them She pauses once, at a See's candy store, coming out with a one pound box of their Key Lime truffles. Her favorite, and a taste that she liked to think was slowly growing on her husband. She grimaces as a man hurries through the glass doors leading to the Plaza as she nears the exit of the fifth building. He does not pause to hold the door open for her as she steps towards him, only passes by her, brushing roughly against her shopping bags. 

People today have no manners, she decides, leveling a glare at the man's back as he rushes through the building. Turning around she starts to pull her sunglasses from her bag as a strange twinge works its way through her body. Not unlike the one this morning when she cut her lip. A need for the blood again, the sight of it on the Harpy blade raises before her eyes. Stopping in midmotion, she raises her fingers to her lips, pressing lightly on the wound. Harder, she gasps a little at the pain, but feels a drop of blood well from the cut. Her tongue traces across her lip, lifting the blood from it. She is unaware of her surroundings, flooded with the strange feeling. Something from the shadows of her memory palace tickles at her, makes her blink as she stands in the Plaza.

A tap on her shoulder. "Ma'am, are you okay?" she focuses her eyes on a man standing in front of her. Concern plays on his features, and she looks at the business suit he wears and the briefcase he carries. 

"Ummmm. Yes, thank you. Just feeling a little odd." she flashed a dazzling smile at him, one that was seen often in the society pages. It works in precisely the intended way. The man grins and looks down at his feet.

"You're sure you're okay?" he asks again, meeting her eyes. Dark cobalt, very striking in the sunlight.

"Yes. Thank you, sir. If you'll excuse me?" she smiles again and steps away, leaving him alone outside the doors to the building. Grabbing for her sunglasses she draws in a deep breath. What was doing this to her? She feels memories sliding again as she draws near to the Lincoln. She thumbs the unlock button on the keyfob as the memory slips into place. Again, her husband's voice whispers in her ears, but it has a darker tinge to it this time.

_"My blood Emily, my flesh as well, I believe you'd like that."_

She shoved the bags in the back seat and climbed into the drivers seat, sitting for a full minute before even managing to get the keys in the ignition. Finally gaining control, she inserted them and started the car. Wheeling the Lincoln into traffic she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked tense, and there was something strange about her eyes. She saw something dark lurking in their depths, shadows that danced in the pupils. She looked away as she pulled a U-turn at the next light.

__

Dear God, what is wrong with me?! she asked silently as the Lincoln purred along. She drove in silence, not allowing herself to think until she reached her destination. She pulled into a spot next to a very familiar black Jaguar. The Lincoln was allowed to idle a moment as she tried to compose herself and begin to think again. She didn't spare the secretary at the desk a second glance as she passed through he front doors. her husband's door to his private office was open and she breezed in, closing it firmly behind her and locking it. He removed his reading glasses and looked up from his desk at her.

"Hello, Emily." his maroon eyes took her in, watching as she sat primly in a chair across the room from him. "Are you okay, dear?" he rose smoothly from the chair behind the mahogany desk. He met her eyes as he crossed the room to her. He could see her trying to compose an appropriate answer and her resentment as she failed.

"No." the single word held more in it than she could explain. He came to sit in the chair opposite from her, pulling it close until their knees were touching. He took her hands in his as he leaned forward.

"Talk to me, Emily."

*****

An hour passes, but time is indeterminate to them now. As he leans forward to his wife, Hannibal Lecter notices something about her. He sees something in her eyes that he has not glimpsed in almost three years. Emily is aware as he draws back sharply in his chair, blinking and staring hard at him.

"What?" she asked, voice suddenly finding strength.

He knows to be cautious. "Emily…"

"What did you see?" she asks. Her voice has dropped a notch, and the air around them seems to cool slightly. "Tell me, Hannibal. What did you see?"

Hannibal draws a deep breath before he speaks. "Myself, Emily. I saw myself." It is the truth, at least partially. he did see himself in her eyes, that dark reflection of the part others had termed monster. But, he had also seen something else, back in the shadows behind it. The briefest glimpse, and it startled him. He patted her hands, she didn't need to know that now. It could only be a passing notion. Surely Emily would never entertain anything as dark as that. He pushed his chair back so that he could stand, stiff legs rebelling against the movement. "Nothing more than that, Emily."

She looks at him, head cocked to one side, eyes boring into him. She isn't completely convinced, but she accepts his words. "Okay." she looks at the grandfather clock against the far wall. "we should get home. I used up your afternoon."

"nonsense. I was only doing patient records. I can finish them in the morning. Besides, my sweet Emily is more important." he brushed a kiss on her cheek as she came to stand next to him. 

She nodded mutely and walked to the door, unlocking it. "I'll pick up Mischa." He nods as he slips his suit coat back on, following in her wake. He nods to the secretary as they pass through the front door. Emily pauses as she slips the keys from her pocket, watching him over the roof of the Lincoln.

"You know, we're just alike." her voice is as clear as a bell above the traffic. Hannibal turns abruptly and looks at her, seeing her head disappear inside the car. He blinks, and catches the quickest of smiles on her face as she starts the car. It is gone though, and so is she. The Lincoln glides from the space, and he is left staring at it as she pulls from the parking lot. As he slides into the Jaguar Hannibal begins to hope that the shadow he saw is nothing more than that. 

*****


	4. Samhain

Nighttime in the Nob Hill home, as the family lays sleeping in their beds. Our couple is spooned together in the dark master bedroom, his arm draped protectively over her. Moonlight pours through the curtained window, spilling across their bodies. The soft chime of the mantel clock downstairs carries up the stairs announcing the hour. Midnight, the witching hour. The time when the spirits come from their places of rest and when shadows take a life of their own. The house settles in the night, cool air fills the room, causing her to shiver in her sleep. A muscle in her cheek twitches and he lips sink into a frown. 

*****

White sheet ghosts and carved pumpkin Jack-o-lanterns populate the front yards of Nob Hill. Bits of fake spiderweb wave on the breeze, stretched over windows and porches. A few yards also sport tombstones, marking non-existent graves. It is strange, still, for Emily to look out onto the decorations and not see piles of golden and red leaves piled amongst them. Here, in such a more temperate climate, the grass is still green and her climbing roses still bloom. Another day of fighting the shadows, she thumbs the garage door opener on the sunvisor and lets the Lincoln idle as the door opens behind her. Golden sunlight spills across the black trunk of the car and reflects in her rearview mirror. The car is slipped into reverse and it elegantly backs into the driveway. The opener is thumbed again and she wheels the vehicle into the street.

As much as she detests it, Emily finds herself in one of those obnoxious chain discount stores. It takes all her skill not to balk as she fills her shopping basket with bags of candy. To think, that a few years ago, she wouldn't have had a second thought about shopping here. Shows what living with a socialite sociopath will do to your shopping habits. Musing over it momentarily, she decides to add another bag of peanut butter cups to the basket, all for herself. She carries her selections to the checkouts, eyeing the selection of tabloids and women's magazines that populate the racks. As always, the _Tattler_ catches her eye, and she notes with a blink of surprise that Jane Morricone has her name on the cover again. The woman had become a household name after she published her book about Darryl Conrad, the second Red Dragon killer. 

The line moves forward and Emily deposits the basket on the counter, reaching into her purse for her wallet and credit cards. The clerk noisily chews a wad of gum and glares at Emily. She ignores it, reaching into her bag for her wallet. He looks thoroughly unenthused with his job, smacking his gum as he swipes the merchandise across the barcode reader. The gum sounds unnaturally loud to Emily, and she blinks for a moment. Something buzzing in her ears. She shakes her head, and withdraws a credit card, laying it on the counter as he finishes the basket and totals out her purchase.

"Twenty eight seventy, lady." he grumbles around the gum wad. A drop of saliva falls from the corner of his mouth as he does so. Her eyes follow its path to the counter, a thin line of revolt forming in her brain. She purses her lips as he takes the card from the counter and shoves it back to her.

"Yer sposed to swipe it yerself." He points a grubby finger at the electronic card reader in front of her. "Duh." he mutters under his breath as Emily swipes the card, returning it to her wallet, and retrieving a pen. The buzzing grows stronger and she feels a little light headed. A receipt is slid in front of her, along with a pen she nudges out of the way. She signs the slip and slides it back across the counter. He looks at it, shoves it into the cash drawer, and hands her a second receipt.

"Have a nice day." The words are robotic, and he doesn't even look at her as Emily grabs her bags. Emily looks at him though, studying his face and remembering it. She doesn't know why, and wonders about it as she walks out the door to her car. People were so rude these days. Rude, and lacking in hygiene as well. She thumbs the trunk release on the keyfob and deposits the bags into the cavernous trunk, slamming it shut afterwards. As she slips into the drivers seat she feels that awkward twist of her stomach again. She presses her fingertips against closed eyelids, as if the pressure would make the tinges go away and the images vanish. 

_Blood._

_Spilling from his lips as he draws his last breath._

Blood on the Harpy blade.

She snapped upright in her seat, shaking her head violently and receiving a glance from the woman getting into the Toyota parked next to her. Emily waited until the Toyota was gone before emerging once again from the Lincoln. Her feet carried her back into the store, and she felt her eyes seeking out the clerk who had helped her. He was away from his register now, talking with another associate. They laughed and he smacked his gum. Pity. Well, she reconsidered, perhaps not, as she headed for their cleaning supplies. She selected a pair of rubber dishwashing gloves and then headed for their hardware department, selecting a heavy plastic dropcloth before returning to the front with her purchases. Her clerk had left his register, and she stepped to the next one, the blonde he had been talking to when she had come back in. Emily swiped the credit card and waited idly while her purchases were totaled. She nodded absently as she let her eyes drift around the store. She took her receipt, nodded at the blonde, and moved towards the exit.

*****

Darkness has begun to settle over the city, the sounds of children mingles with the buzz of evening. A breeze causes the white sheet ghost to flutter as the Jack-o-lanterns are lit, exposing their carven features to the rapidly descending night. Inside their home, Emily clears the table as her husband follows their daughter upstairs to get her into her Halloween costume. Mischa has chosen to be a fairie, and the two reappear in a little but with her in glittery wings and a star-tipped wand clutched in her hand.

"Mommy! Look!" she squeals as she runs to the kitchen, her father following behind and grimacing at the loose sparkles that decorate his black silk shirt. Emily smiles and admires her daughter's costume as the child comes to a stop before her. Scooping her into the air, Emily takes the wand from her, tapping her on the head with it. Mischa giggles and grabs for the wand.

"Are you sure you want to take her out?" she asks Hannibal, who stands in the formal dining room watching as Emily pulls the Maglight from the drawer. She holds it out to him, watching his hand close over it, taking its weight.

"Want daddy to take me!" Mischa interjects her opinion on the matter, earning a smile form her intimidating father.

"We'll be safe, I assure you. And how can I refuse such a child?" Hannibal steps to the kitchen and takes Mischa the Fairie from his wife's arms. He plucks a plastic pumpkin bucket from the counter and sets out to the front door. Emily follows in his wake, watching the star-tipped wand as it taps against his dark sleek head. "You'll be fine, Emily?" he asks before opening the front door, brow lifted and head cocked to the side. The fairie Hannibal holds mimics him, while waving the wand at her mother.

"Yes. Go. Have fun." she kisses each on the cheek, and sees them out onto the porch. She waits there until they are out of sight. She steps back inside and closes the door. "Just fine." she murmurs again, a wicked smile growing across her face, along with a strange glow in her eyes.

*****


	5. Surprise

This is entirely for Kurt. I promised I would do it, so Kurt, you'd better be happy. Or else I will be forced to eat you. Enjoy, dear ones.

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In civilization there have to be some restraints. If we followed every impulse, we'd be killing one another.

-Miss Manners (Judith Martin)

*****

The clank of metal on metal rang form the open door of the gardener's shed in the far corner of the back yard. The back porch light shone out dimly across the grassy expanse, but did little to help illuminate the shed's interior. A shadow moves faintly in the dark, tugging at something, trying to free it. A grunt form the shadow that turns into a yelp as balance is lost and the item freed. Glitter in the faint light, the tip of a chainsaw emerges form the shed door, shoved into the grass. A slender shadow follows it out, brushing dust off her dark pants. Emily reaches down and seizes the chainsaw, inspecting it, then beginning to walk with it back to the house. The back door is shut and the light extinguished.

*****

The basement is cool against bare skin, and the sound of plastic shuffles underneath her feet. It was difficult to get him down here, much more so than getting him into the trunk of the car. He now lays on an old folding table, bound with duct tape. Emily's nostrils flare as she pulls on the rubber dishwashing gloves, taking in their smell. She watches his eyes as she does so, and can now pick up the fear and sweat that is rolling off him in waves. He still wears his nametag and vest from his place of work, she reads the nametag now as she approaches him.

"Rich?" she sees him blink at the sound of his name. "Okay, Rich, we're going to have a little lesson in manners tonight. Understand me?" She watches as he nods, just barely. "Good boy." Emily begins to walk around the table, hands clasped behind her back like a lecturer. "Now, one is never rude when dealing with others, especially customers. We do provide you with your paycheck." she paused and stared at him, cobalt eyes burning into his dim brown ones. Was that a tear on his cheek? For the love of… She had barely gotten started. "One also does not speak to a lady like you did today. Very uncouth, Rich. And never, ever, does one mutter 'Duh' at his customer." She tapped him on the duct tape sealed lips. The silence hung in the air as Emily retreated to the far end of the table, bending from his line of sight, then reappearing. The chainsaw loomed huge in her grasp, a hungry gleam coming into her eyes. Fear came into Rich's eyes as they focused on the chainsaw.

"Now, for our final lesson, Rich. Something that will make sure that you will no longer be forgetting your manners." The saw was a gas powered model, and she set it on the ground, resting a foot against it as she tugged the starter cord with all her might. It leapt to life with a sound between that of a buzz and a roar. Thankfully, no one would hear it if they were outside the house. She hefted the chainsaw into the air again, and felt like she had just walked out of a bad horror flick she had seen once. Something about naked women in tribal paint, a cult, and chainsaws, of course. 

She neared the end of the table where Rich's head rested, took notice of his struggles against the duct tape that bound him to the table. It shifted with some of his more valiant efforts, but that was all. For what seemed an eternity for both, Emily pondered the act she was about to commit. There was a pang of guilt and remorse, but it slipped away. Her eyes darkened as she lifted the saw, positioning it, and feeling the heavy vibration rattling through her. The sound was deafening, and she wished she had thought to provide herself with some hearing protection. Ah well, too late for that now. The saw began its descent, and Emily was enthralled by the crazed fear that burned in the soon to be late Rich's dim brown eyes.

*****

The house had a strange feel to it as Dr. Lecter and daughter returned from a successful evening of trick-or-treating. Mischa rested with her forehead against her father's shoulder as he carried the sleepy child to bed. As he descended to the main level once again he became aware of the smell. Gasoline and oil, and possibly, blood? Hannibal's pulse rate rose and he moved quickly through the house. He found Emily luxuriating in the living room with a glass of wine and a magazine spread across her knees.

"Hello, dear, I didn't hear you come in." she looked up as he came into the room. The fireplace flickered and she reached for the wine. Deep burgundy in color, even darker through the amethyst glass. He caught a whiff of it on the air, along with Emily's sweet scent. Danielle, the chocolate Port from Rosenblom Cellars. Emily's lighter notes of lavender and vanilla floated atop the chocolate and raspberry ones of the wine. 

"Hello, Emily." He stepped into the circle of light cast by the reading lamp. He stood over her, staring, trying to penetrate her thoughts.

"You look flushed Hannibal. Come, sit, relax." she nodded at the couch, inviting him to join her. He remained standing. "Or don't." she amended. She stole a glance at the watch in her wrist. "It's late anyway, I'm going to head upstairs." she slipped from the couch, folding the magazine under an arm and carrying the glass of Port with her. She brushed past him, and he noted that she was eerily calm. He stepped to the door and watched her pad down the slate tiles of the hall. She paused before turning up the stairs.

"Oh, and someone dropped a little present off for you. It's on the kitchen table, Hannibal." Her voice rang clear through the quiet of the house. He stared for a moment longer then walked to the kitchen. A wooden box sat on the table, and he ran his fingers across it. Unfinished pine, and it was heavy as he lifted it. He carefully lifted the lid, doubting that it would explode or anything. As the lid came away, a head popped out of the box on an industrial strength spring. The surprise caused Dr. Hannibal Lecter to jump back, smacking back against the counter. Even from his new vantage point a few feet back, Dr. Lecter could tell that the head was indeed real. Fear and curiosity mingled in his mind as he began to form a line of thought. She couldn't have, could she? Not his sweet, sweet Emily. There was a giggle and he heard his wife's voice call from upstairs.

"Happy Halloween, Hannibal!"

With that, all doubts were erased from his mind, and his eyes traveled in the direction of the stairs. It had finally happened, and he was about to be launched down a terribly twisted path.

*****


	6. All Soul's Day

Hannibal watched his wife closely the following day, since she was in Larkspur at their practice with him. She had one patient early in the day, an older woman that reminded him of the late Mrs. Grimes. She spent the rest of the day working on an article for a psychiatry journal and taking care of patient records for the both of them. Softly over the speakers, the voice of John Mellancamp. Not his choice in music, but it was not his place to decide what she listened to. He watched her now from the doorway, red eyes taking the scene in. Emily bent over her desk, a pair of glasses beginning to slide down the bridge of nose. Notes being made in her small, precise script. She looked like the woman he had met years ago in Vermont. Before that fateful night when he had made his offer to her.

"Hannibal, if you're going to stare at me, at least have the decency to close the door and come into the office." The voice cut through the silence suddenly, and she never looked up from the file that lay on the blotter before her, never having given any indication that she knew he was there. Dr. Lecter obeyed and stepped through the doorframe and into her office, closing the door behind him. She never once looked up as he came to sit in a chair before her desk. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and the image reminded him of a strict principal from his youth. The sound of her Uni-Ball was the only thing he heard for a few moments as the CD on the stereo switched over. John Mellancamp was replaced by the voice of Don Henley, a live cut of _Desperado_. She finished her notes and looked up at him over the rim of her glasses.

"Emily, are you feeling all right?" She looked at him, head beginning to tilt to one side.

"Yes, Hannibal. Why? Aren't you?" there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips, as if she found this rather amusing. As if nothing strange had happened last night. He had noticed that the box and the head it contained were gone when he entered the kitchen this morning. An examination of the house while Emily was showering and preparing for the day revealed nothing out of place. If anything, she was good at concealment.

"I'm fine, my dear. About last night…"

"Wasn't that dreadful? Well, it was a bit amusing, in a morbid sort of way." She made it sound as if she were discussing a film they had just seen, not a head on a spring inside a plain pine box. "I really don't know why someone would do something like that." a pause, and a slow blink. Something looked out from behind her eyes, straight into Hannibal's soul, and he did not like it one bit.

"Emily, why did you do it?" It was as direct as he dared to be at the moment, considering he was rather off balance by the whole situation. He had been calm after committing murders in his own past, but never so nonchalant about them. It was one of the few times he could recount as unnerving. His wife was smiling now, pale peach lips against white teeth. 

"Do what, Hannibal, answer the door? Because it would be dreadfully rude not to. And I couldn't leave a package on the porch on Halloween, think of the children."

It was going nowhere, and he would not dignify her antics with the sigh he held back. She was patting his hand, tracing the scar that marked the back of it with a delicate finger. There was no warmth in her finger he noted. "Emily."

"I'm fine, Hannibal. I may have been a little out of sorts recently, but I assure you, it has passed." The finality with which she said _passed_ invited no argument from him. The chill in her gaze only furthered that notion.

"If you say so, dear." he paused for a moment before rising from the chair. She was next to him so quickly that he didn't remember seeing her move. She was still smiling, wrapping a hand around the back of his head, drawing his face close. She placed her lips against his, parting his lips with her tongue. The shock and suddenness of it all kept him from responding immediately. He returned the kiss, letting his own tongue begin to explore hers, earning a purr of delight low in her throat. Emily pulled back slightly, easing out of the kiss. Hannibal hissed in sudden pain as she bit his lip, hard, hard enough to draw blood. She kissed it and ran her tongue over the wound she had caused, tasting the blood. 

Stormy cobalt eyes, darkened by colored contacts, met intense maroon ones. "Emily." She held his gaze a moment more as she drew away. She flicked her gaze away for a moment, then it came back up to meet his again. 

"Do remember when you said I could have your blood?" she asked, watching as he gingerly touched a handkerchief to his lip, dabbing at the blood. It wasn't bad, but that was not the point. The surprise of such an action from her, coupled with the question, it was so unlike her.

"Yes, Emily, I do." he replied matter of factly, returning the handkerchief to his jacket pocket. "I also offered you my flesh as well."

"Ummmm. You really shouldn't have done that you know."

*****


	7. Reasoning

A practiced hand coaxes notes from the keyboard before him, spilling music into the still night air. The old house hulks quietly in the darkness, the glimmer of moonlight spills into the front room and across the closed lid of the grand piano. Candles flicker on shelves and sconces around the room their light reflecting in his dark pupils as he stares unseeingly. A glass of golden chardonnay sits, forgotten, on the lid of the piano. The song played is _Homage_, by Jeff Fallen, something he has not heard in a long time. A lifetime ago, it seems now as he plays. A song that she played because it accented the way she felt about him. The doctor was worried now, that he may have lost the woman he had once known. And it may very well be his fault. Flickers of candlelight gleam on that fine dark head, as it moves in time with the music.

*****

The crystalline notes swarm up the stairs and permeate the darkness that envelops the bedroom. Underneath the down comforter she lays curled, body tight and coiled. She is not asleep, but listening to the songs her husband play's quietly on this dark night. The curtains are closed tightly in here, refusing the moon beam's entrance. She struggles against the shadows that are now threatening to overtake her. They are so cold in her mind, oppressive and overwhelming. She gave into them yesterday, tumbled over the edge of her own personal abyss. She had blithely lied to her husband about her state of mind this afternoon. Once more calling his help and then turning it away. As she listened to the music and the quiet sighs of the house, she wondered how she came to be at this point in her life.

*****

The moon has shifted position, climbing out of view from where he sits. The candles are burning low and the room is warm from them. He lets the last note hang as he stops his playing, blinking slowly. No, it is not his fault. If he had known that his actions that night would lead to this, he would have never even considered them. But, to accept that his wife was going mad, it was equally implausible. But she had the look of a fledgling killer, he glimpsed that in her office this afternoon. She was seeking blood, very hungry for it, to say the least. He looked through the glass of chardonnay trying to divine an answer to his single question: why? His sweet wife, the one person he had found to be truly _just alike_. Those same words she had uttered when they were leaving the practice a few days ago. The words he had spoken to her when she found she couldn't kill him. Just alike. 

*****

_Blood_. The shadows were crying out for it, and she was succumbing to them. But why? The unspoken question raced through her thoughts, as she tried to find an answer somewhere in her memory palace. Images of a bright basement, the feeling of cold sweat coating her body. The image of her husband bound to a chair, and making no move break free and save her. Oh, true, he had killed Pazzi and rescued her afterwards. After she had already been cut open and then shot by the woman. And he had done nothing to stop her. Why? Images of him in her old home, handing her his Harpy knife, seeing if she would take his life with it. Because they were _just alike_, that had been his explanation. The words he had uttered when she had killed Vergne. 

_"That's my girl."_

She heard the door ease open, felt his shadow cross the room, even though there was no light to cast a shadow. She lay still and silent, eyes lightly closed as she felt his weight settle into the bed beside her. She could hear the murmur of silk against the sheets as he slid next to her. Tentatively, hair is brushed from her face, and the hand settled against her. She listens and waits until she hears his breathing deepen into sleep. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck, and she shivers. What was happening to her, what she was becoming, that they really were just alike. Only, if only, because he had done this to her. It's the last thing, and her tenuous grasp on her old self sipped before she could stop it, the shadows fully slipping into the last vestiges of light in the palace. She was only doing this because they were just alike, and he had done this to her.

*****


	8. A Matter Of Trust

Short chapter, since I think I'm going to fall asleep with my head on the keyboard. Special thanks to all of my reviewers. Don't worry, I'll stop dilly-dallying and get the blood flowing again soon. Cheers!

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Haydn echoes through the house's stereo system, the soaring strains of 'Benedictus' swell in the confines of the front room. Soft sun shines through the windows as Emily stands beside the piano. Her eyes are focused on the stained glass window, and she is pondering breaking it. She has not been inclined to sit in the pools of light since that morning. Two weeks. Has it really been that long? The remains of poor Rich had been disposed of last week, and she had noted a brief mention of him on the news, only a missing person. Nothing more than a little blurb on the news, then promptly forgotten. The Bay Area had too many other things to worry about than a missing cashier. 

Moving away from the piano she trails her fingers along the spines of their collected volumes. She stops at the fifth book on the first shelf, tugging gently at it. Hollowed out, an old copy of _Stedman's Shorter Medical Dictionary, Revised and Enlarged_. Carrying it to the piano, it is laid on the glossy black surface and opened. Surprise flashes in her eyes upon finding the cavity empty. No. She had put the Harpy back when she had cleaned up the room that day. She had done so after Hannibal had left for the day. She looks again, dropping fingers into the empty cavity to ensure that it is not an illusion. Gone. She glares towards his study upstairs, knowing that it is probably tucked away in there. The book is returned to its spot and she ascends the stairs with a mission.

*****

Never once in her life has Emily been inside a knife shop. She has never had any need to, until now. Clasping her purse close to her she looks over the glass display cases, eyeing the shops wares. She does not see what she wants, and agitation wells up in her. Fortunately, a clerk notices her and comes to stand in front of her, behind the cases.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" He looks at her with soft green eyes, long raven hair pulled into a ponytail that hangs down the back of his neck. She smiles, glad to see that he is polite. Fortunately, she will not have to demonstrate the finer points of manners to him.

"I'm looking for a Spyderco Harpy, if you carry it."

A nod. "Sure. Over here." he leads her to a display case on the other side of the store, reaching for a set of keys in his jeans pocket. "I have to say, you're the first woman I've ever had come in asking for one."

"Oh, it's for my husband, actually. An early birthday gift." she smiled again and watched intently as he slid the door to the case open. The Harpy was closed and he withdrew it, handing it to her. She felt the heft of it in her hand and flicked it open, hoping the practiced ease didn't show too much. For her husband. Really. The man was pointing to the blade with his pinkie of the right hand.

"It's a nice knife, ma'am. The serrated blade cuts well." she nodded along, playing dumb.

"How much?" she closed the blade and passed it back to him, regretting the feel of it leaving her palm.

"I can let you have it for one hundred, with a case."

"Fine. Do you take Visa?"

*****

Emily emerges from the shop with the knife tucked into her purse, and she could feel every ounce of weight it added. She dropped the leather purse into the passenger seat of the Lincoln as she slid in. No sooner than she had done so, the first drop of rain splattered on the windshield. Joy, more rain. She checked the clock on the dash as she pulled into traffic. If she hurried, she could get Mischa from daycare and be home in time for supper. She flipped through the CD case while she idled at a stoplight. As the light turned green, _Phantom of the Opera_ spilled from the speakers.

*****


	9. A Night Alone

Hannibal Lecter resides in his study later that evening, staring at the glowing visage of himself on the computer screen. Bi-weekly checks are made of the FBI's website, to insure that if he is still on the Ten Most Wanted list, which he is, and to insure that the photo is not updated, which is not. As usual, they are running a comfortable two faces behind. There is a notice on his stats page that he is suspected of kidnapping and possibly murdering the psychiatrist Dr. Emily Christophersen. No, he had not kidnapped her and he would never dream of murdering his wife. Not in a thousand years. Those words triggered a memory in him and he briefly closes his eyes, remembering the kitchen on Chesapeake. Clarice.

It struck him as he looked back on those fateful nights, how he had saved Clarice, had tended to her wounds. Had rid her of the annoyingly crude Krendler. He had also rescued Emily, had tended to her wounds. They had the same mark on them, from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Both bore the same scars from his skillful hand. Both women shot while someone was trying to exact their revenge on him. The same, yet so different. Clarice had let Mischa come to reside in her memory palace, had offered him so much. Emily, she would have none of that, but she knew the monster that dwelled inside him, had acknowledged its presence in herself as well.

But to think that Emily would truly let something as dark as that control her actions? He was still incredulous but he knew it to be true. She had changed, and he was at a loss to understand why. He closed out the window that had his face in it and let the computer close out the Internet connection. He remembered back to when he had killed the first of his victims. Emily had that same look about her, and he would not doubt that she would kill again. But why? The question was still confounding him. She had no reason that he could readily seize upon to start killing people. Whimsy? Something to amuse herself? No, that was as implausible to him as her going mad. There had to be a plausible reason, a method to the madness, so to speak.

Rain begins to patter softly against the old glass of the windowpane. It is crazed from the years, and he can see his rippled reflection in it. It is the only sound in the house, considering Emily is out for the evening, attending someone's wedding shower. It occurs to him as he rises from the chair to look in on Mischa that he is desperately hoping that she truly is at a wedding shower. How strange it was, to feel a twinge of fear at what his wife might do. An idle thought as he looks down on the sleeping child in the crib, that Emily might turn on him. He shoves the possibility of such aside after considering it for a moment. No, she might try to hurt him, but she would never attempt to take his life. He had offered her the chance once, and she had not taken it. He was almost certain that she would not attempt such again. Almost.

*****

A lone figure strolls down the quiet streets that make up the Nob Hill neighborhood in San Francisco. She carries an umbrella with her, but does not use it in the light rain. Rivulets snake down the back of her neck and past the upturned collar of the trench coat she wears. It is difficult to make her out as she passes out of the light cast by the lampposts. IN her opposite hand she carries a plastic grocery bag, which swings gently in time with her steps. If you listen carefully you can hear her humming 'Masquerade' form _Phantom of the Opera_. She switches the umbrella to the hand with the bag and digs into her pocket for the keyfob. The headlights on the Lincoln flash once as she dearms the alarm and unlocks it. She must hurry home and get the bag's contents into the freeze. Wouldn't want tomorrow's dinner to spoil, now would she?

*****


	10. Dinner Is Served

Procrastinating? Not I. Hyped up on caffeine while listening to Swan Lake? Definitely. So I'm a tad bit addicted to the classical station, a little culture never hurt anyone. And besides, it helps inspire my inner sociopath, let's me get in touch with my Lecterish side. Air holes? I don't know, Steel…

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Emily sits on the tile countertop with a cookbook spread open in her lap. Her feet bang gently against the white front cabinets as she swings her legs like a child. She is in unusual spirits today, and she hums along with the music coming over the speakers as she peruses the magazine. Ahhh, there. She reads the recipe over as she runs her finger along the page. The photo opposite, how nice of them to provide a photo, shows a lovely looking finished item. Yes, that would do quite nicely. She sets the book on the counter next to her and she hopped down from the counter. A quick check of the cabinets provides her with the reassurance that she has all of the required ingredients. This was going to be f u n.

*****

As Hannibal enters the slate floored front hall he catches the gleam of candlelight emanating from the formal dining room, along with the soft clink of crystal. Intrigued, he forgoes the usual routine of heading upstairs to change and proceeds to the kitchen. He is greeted by a toddling Mischa who grabs his leg in a fierce hug, preventing him from entering the kitchen fully. Emily's voice floats over the delectable smells that waft from the doorway.

"You can't come in here, dear. Go ahead and have a seat at the table, dinner will be ready in a moment." The voice dims and then strengthens again as she moves in and out of the pantry. Hannibal arches a brow and scoops his daughter up from his leg. Smiling at her as she plants a kiss on his cheek.

"What's mommy making for dinner, little Mischa?" he questions the two year old, who grins in his face.

"Is a surprise!" she claps gleefully, increasing her father's curiosity. 

"Yes, and you shouldn't ask anyhow, Hannibal." cautions Emily's voice from the kitchen. "It ruins the surprise."

"Ah yes, where were my manners?" he smiles and asks his daughter, who is trying to undo her father's tie. He situates her in her booster seat beside him and takes his own seat. Perfect timing, as Emily emerges from the kitchen with the main dish. She smiles over the head of steam coming from the platter, and he is shocked. What was honey colored hair when he left is now a bright red. Her eyes were less startling, but it was still strange to see the blue-grey depths after becoming adjusted to the cobalt colored contacts she wore.

"Something wrong, Hannibal?" She placed the platter on the table and took her seat, laying her napkin in her lap before she reached for the serving dish that held the asparagus.

"Your hair..." he is at a loss for words, unable to look away from her. 

"Mischa and I went to the salon today. I felt I needed a change." More than a change, she had a suspicion that someone had seen her emerging from the alleyway behind the caterer's little building. Killing two people in one night just wasn't what she had wanted to do. Hair and eye color were easy enough to change. And the haircut as well, she slightly missed the length she had before, but life sometimes called for desperate measures The red hair just brushed her shoulders, and she had bangs again. Now _those_ would definitely take some getting used to again. She returned her husband's stare, and pointed the tongs she was using to grasp the asparagus at the platter that sat before them. "Aren't you going to serve? Or are you waiting for it to get cold?"

He looked at the meat before him, lifting the serving fork to deliver a piece to his wife's plate. Something in the smell was triggering an old memory, one that wouldn't quite come clear. Shaking his head minutely he delivered the piece onto her plate. She smiled and nodded graciously, head cocked at a slight angle. She was watching him, carefully taking in each of his movements. She watched as he cut into the slice of meat on his plate, lifting it to his mouth. His actions seemed to take forever. Emily let out a quiet breath as he swallowed.

"Very good, Emily." she beamed in his praise, beginning to eat her own meal. Mischa chewed on a spear of asparagus as the two adults ate their dinners in relative silence. Emily began to wonder how long it would take him to figure out what he was really eating. The thought sent a shiver of excitement down her spine, which she carefully concealed as she sipped her wine. Ah yes, two can play at the game he began al those years ago. It was time for someone new to step up to the plate.

*****


	11. Barb Wire and Broomsticks

The lines the GD will quote are from _Goblin Market_ by Christina Rosetti, written in 1862. 

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_"A census taker tried to quantify me once. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a big Amarone."_

The words rang hollow in his head as he rolled over in the bed. The memory that had escaped him at dinner was now resurrected as he tried to sleep. Emily does not stir as he moved away from her, propping himself up on an elbow to look at her. Something told him that tonight's meal had not been from the owner of the severed head, it had been too fresh for that. She turns in her sleep, her back is now towards him and he stares at her. Red hair against the white pillow case, still wet from her shower earlier this evening. She had served to him the liver of another person she had killed. She had done this knowing full well that he would ultimately recognize the taste and know what she had done. And to no purpose that he could discern. The woman laying next to him had just eaten it alongside him at a perfectly laid dinner table. 

To reprimand her and say that she was wrong to do such a thing as eat something from another human being would be tantamount to telling himself that. He was himself a cannibal, Hannibal the Cannibal, as the media was so fond of saying. Had his mother picked that easily rhyming name knowing what her son would become? The idle thought is pushed aside as he lowers himself back to the pillow. What was that saying? What was good for the goose is good for the gander. Obviously, Emily thought it to be true in reverse. What was good for him was good for her. How many more victims would there be? As he closed his eyes, a greater fear nudged its way into his thoughts: How much longer until she was caught? Eyes opened to a slit and he looked at the back of her neck. This had to stop.

*****

She sits before the piano, fingers trailing lightly across the keys, letting the notes come forth and hang lightly in the air. She is ignorant of the maroon eyes that watch from the hallway, is uncaring of the late morning light that glints off the glossy black, causing sparkles in her eyes. It doesn't occur to her that it is strange for him to still be here, since she has yet to notice him. She was beautiful there, caught in the sunlight, no trace in her features of the shadows that consumed her waking and non-waking hours.

_Laura stretched her gleaming neck_

Like a rush-imbedded swan,

Like a lily from the beck,

Like a moonlit poplar branch.

Like a vessel at the launch

When its last restraint is gone.

He senses rather than hears her stop playing and he slips from view, not wanting to alarm her. True, he is showing a rather large lack of trust at the moment, but he needs to know. She closes the lid on the piano and slides form the bench. She wears a black pantsuit, well tailored, with a red silk blouse. A glitter of a pendant at her throat, the garnet that so matches his eyes. Garnet earrings as well, and the wedding band on her finger. The Seiko watch is the only other piece of jewelry she wears, and she is without makeup. The coppery color of her hair is still shocking, and he is in doubt that he will grow accustomed to it. Surely there is a reason as to why she did, not just because of a whim.

Careful now, as she heads upstairs, it is his only chance to slip out and to the Jaguar that sits parked around the corner form their street. He lets the powerful engine idle as he waits fro her to emerge form the house, listening to the strains of Brahms over the speakers. The Lincoln glides to the stop sign a block before him, and he watches as she turns left, in the opposite direction he waits in. The Jaguar is slipped into gear and he follows her, partially afraid of what he is going to see today.

*****

Emily walked silently around the gallery as her friends jabbered on about the collection there. A lone sculpture caught her eye and she walked over to it, staring at it. She waved one of her friends over with her, never really taking her eyes from the object.

"You like it Amelia?" asked the woman, coming to stand beside the psychiatrist. 

"It's very interesting, Katie." she reached a slim finger out to poke at the wire wrapped sculpture.

"My effort women's liberation." the brunette grinned. Emily gave her a strange look.

"That happened a long time ago, Kate."

The artist shrugged. "So I'm a few decades behind. It supposed to represent the aversion to housework the men make us do."

Emily considered this. Yes, she could see that, but she had something more in mind for the work of her artist friend. Lips began to twist into a grim smile as she reached for the handbag that hung near her waist. "Would you consider selling it, Katie?"

The artist looked at Emily, smiling and waving her hand. "Sell? Nope, but I'll give it to you, consider it an early Christmas gift."

"Really? Thanks, Kate." Emily returned the wallet to her handbag and peered at the broomstick wrapped with barb wire. 

Katie looked from the object back to Emily's eyes. "You really like it, Amelia?"

"Oh yes, and I know just what I'm going to do with it."

*****


	12. The Pleasures of the Garden

Late evening, one can see a few stars peeking through the fog that is preceding the rain into the bay. The night air is cooling rapidly with the increasing humidity. The local news reported that there was an eighty percent chance for thunderstorms that evening, and Mother Nature was looking to be all too willing to oblige them. The Jaguar is easing back into the driveway as the first swollen drops begin to strike the windshield. The engine purrs low as he pulls into the garage, next to his wife's Lincoln. The engine under the Lincoln's hood is still ticking and cooling as he cuts power to the Jag. 

The air in the house is still and cool, smelling slightly of lavender and cedar. The main level lays in darkness, and he does not bother to reach for the light switch as he slips from the overcoat he wears. The soft sound of her voice floats down the stairs, she is singing something in Latin, possibly from the confines of their daughter's room. He pauses in the front room, seeing the flash of lightning through the stained glass window. _Jubilate deo_, is what he can make out from his spot. It's been so long since she has sung, and it reminds him of how things used to be.

Strange, to think of it in those terms. As if she had been rendered into a different person from a disease or a tragic accident. In less time than it took the moon to complete its phase she had turned to a world of shadow. He left the stairs as he heard footsteps in the upstairs hallway, heading for the kitchen. Poking through the refrigerator he half expected to find another head. Fortunately, she had not served him the brains of the first victim. Although, those would be a little more obvious than the sautéed liver from last night. Ironically, the leftovers from that meal sat atop the pizza box from her and Mischa's earlier supper. He plucks the Tupperware container from its spot and eyed it. As a flash of lightning reflects in his pupils causing his eyes to glow he shoots a guilty look towards the stairs and assures himself that she was not coming he placed the container on the counter and shut the door. 

*****

Emily stripped the pale green leather gardening gloves from her hands and knocked them against her jeans. The ground was still wet form the night's rains and she looked about the yard. She had been kneeling in the back by the lilacs and her roses, digging out weeds and cutting back dead branches. The hum of the lawnmower could be heard in the front yard as Lisa tended to the grass out there. As much as Emily loved gardening and the chores that went with it, it was nice to have someone to do most of it for her. She smiled and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, cocking her head as she heard the trill of her cell phone from the porch. Slowly approaching the porch, feeling light and happy, and hungry. Maybe she'd have the last of the live for lunch, she had a nice Chianti that would go nicely with it.

*****

Emily had retired to her office and was reading over one of many psychiatric journals that covered her desk when the knock came on the door. She looked up from the article and find Lisa standing in her doorway, face slightly reddened from the sun and a bead of sweat working its way down her forehead. 

"Yes?" 

"Dr. Rinaldi, I found something in the shed that I though you might like to know about." the woman said, gripping her gloves in her hand, causing a few particles of dirt to fall to the floor. Emily rose and lay the journal on the leather blotter, then followed Lisa out of the office and to the back door. The woman was obviously nervous as she led her employer across the backyard. Emily was carefully controlling her face as she walked across the freshly cut grass. She knew what the gardener had found in the shed, and was surprised that her husband hadn't. A plan began to form in her mind, as she came to the large shed against the far back corner of the yard.

"Its really strange, Dr. Rinaldi, I really think you should call the police or something and let them have a look at it." Lisa was saying as they stepped into the shed. The smells of dust and dried grass, along with oil and gasoline filled Emily's nostrils as she stepped into the shed. The light streaming in from the tinted sunlight above them was mottled by dust and pollen. Emily paused by the door, left hand dropping and feeling along the wall for what she seeked. A tiny bottle, secreted against on of the beams. Fingers wrapped around it and drew it out, as her right hand reached for a handkerchief in her pocket.

"Here, it is, Dr. Rinaldi." Lisa was hefting the chainsaw form the corner out to show to Emily. Wise woman, she was wearing her gardening gloves once again. "I found it while I was looking for the fertilizer for the garden. It looks likes there's blood or something on it."

Emily felt herself nodding, not really, since she felt like she was a spectator. She raised her handkerchief to her nose, and then waved away the glittering dust mites with it.

"Bad for my allergies." she quipped, dropping the hand to seemingly return the cloth to her back pocket. Lisa was bending her knees, lowering the chainsaw to the floor of the shed. A nimble twist of the cap opened the bottle and Emily squirted the contents onto the handkerchief. Hopefully, Lisa wouldn't notice the smell. Slipping the bottle into a rear pocket she came to stand beside and slightly behind Lisa. She lowered herself slightly, nodding as the woman pointed out the stains on the chain. 

"I think we should call the police, Dr. Rinaldi. I mean, what if someone _killed_ someone else with this?" She looked back to her employer, eyes a little wider than normal. The look on Emily's face was reminiscent of one that had been plastered all over the media. Not her charming smile that graced the society pages, but one that looked like it had been stolen off her husbands face.

"I don't think so, Lisa." Before the woman could blink the ether soaked cloth was clapped over her mouth and nose, along with a firm arm around her chest. The garner struggled but Emily kept her grip, the smile slowly fading and then reviving as the struggles ceased. She let the woman drop as she threw the handkerchief into a bag of grass clippings.

"We won't be needing the police for this."

*****


	13. A Quiet Friday Night

More emotion, dear Troesnaja? We'll have to see about that. What's for dinner, dear Steel? Why, Lisa, of course. And I quite agree with you Kurt that this is probably not what was meant when Lisa was told 'Employer provided medical benefits'. Anyhoo, thank you all, you're all so very lovely. I promise not to send Em after any of you, unless you volunteer to become dinner. Thank you to al my volunteer corpses, errr, victims so far. I'll shush now and get back to more important things, like the story. Tralala…

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Blinking away the cobwebs that festered in her mind Lisa lifted her head from where it drooped against her chest, looking at her surroundings. Darkness was all she could see at the moment, marked by a few slits of light coming in from some windows way up on the walls. She knew that she was upright and bound, she could feel the cold steel pole that she was currently secured to. Duct tape wraps her upper chest and her legs, along with her wrists that are secured behind her back and the pole. Struggling was useless as she was stuck quite steadfastly. Opening her mouth did nothing either, as it was sealed with another strip of duct tape, and her throat and mouth felt dry and rough anyway.

Knocked out somehow in the shed, the last thing she remembered was the sunlight and the hand snaking over her mouth. For someone so small she wouldn't have had expected her employer to have the strength she obviously did. AS her senses became more attuned, she could feel soreness in her legs and under her arms. Dragged, and from what were probably bruises she was feeling on her legs, dragged down a flight of stairs. Why, was the foremost question on her mind though. Her fingers felt stiff and cold as she wiggled them, trying for any ounce of motion. The chainsaw she had found in the shed, the red flecks that ran across the housing and the chain itself. Really, the nice doctor lady couldn't be a killer, could she? All coherent thoughts are banished from her mind as the lights flick on and the creak of footsteps begin to come down the stairs. 

*****

"I don't care, Miss Mischa, if Mommy says its bath and bedtime, then its bath and bed time." The stern voice rang from the upstairs hallway, followed by a two year olds plaintive wail.

"But I don't wanna! Not sleepy!" Mischa protested, standing steadfastly naked on the bathrug in the master bath. Emily ran a hand back through her red hair and closed her eyes. Was she ever this trying as a child? No, because if she had her mother would've knocked the shit and sobs right out of her. Emily opened her eyes to see the toddler's maroon eyes staring back at her. Oh yes, she was definitely her father's daughter. Eyes, attitude and all. Emily met the stare with her own and stood, picking the child up from the rug and plunking her into the lukewarm bath.

"Bath time, then bed time." she pronounced firmly, grabbing the terry cloth bath mitt and beginning to soap it up. "Agreed?"

The maroon eyes glared for a moment, the small mouth drawn into a firm line, considering her mother. The lips then turned into a pout as she echoed her mother's last word. "Agweed."

"Good." her demeanor softened then and she smiled at the little girl. "And Mommy will read you a story, okay?"

"Bout Pooh?" Mischa's eyes lit hopefully. Emily nodded approval of the request.

"About Pooh, I promise." she scooped water into a cup and leaned forward to grab the shampoo. "Cover your eyes, Mischa."

*****

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was reclined on the sofa idly listening to the argument occurring in the bathroom upstairs. He shook his head at the sound of his daughter's protests and went back to flipping through the Italian edition of _Vogue_. So nice not to have the magazine falling apart in your hands. The crackle of the fireplace was the only sound after Emily and Mischa finished their argument, obviously Emily had won as he heard the sound of small feet and a bottom being placed into the bathtub. Almost silent, except for one little thing. Small, quiet sounds were issuing from the vent behind the couch. Not unlike mice, but the doctor doubted that it was that. He paused and looked up from the article. They had stopped, but then it came again, slightly louder this time. He set the magazine on the occasional table that sat beside the couch and sat up.

Silence again as his feet hit the floor. The doctor moves quickly to the basement door, reaching for the door knob and turning it. A tug on the door but nothing happened. Strange. Maroon eyes are fixed on the knob, antiqued brass, but different form before. Lowering himself to the level of the knob he peers at it, running a finger along its circumference. Different, if only slightly. Emily had changed the locks. A grimace crosses Hannibal's face. She was hiding something from him.

Reemerging a few minutes later form the garage he carries a slim leather package with him. Water runs in the pipes indicating that the bath is now through. He heard tiny footsteps running down the hall, followed y the larger ones indicating that Emily was following Mischa to her room. Quickly and quietly the leather package is opened to reveal his picks. Time is of the essence as he begins to work on the lock, carefully listening for any sign of his wife's descent to the main level. Nimble fingers work, and he can feel every beat of his pulse as he does so. The buzz and vibration in his trouser pocket startle him. He wills it to go away, but withdraws the picks from the keyhole. Of all the times… A quick check of the display and he issues a growl from under his breath.

The picks are returned to the leather case and he rises from his spot in front of the door. He slipped to the closet and withdrew a dark overcoat, shrugging it around his slim figure. The sound of his footsteps in the front hall and the opening and closing of doors had drawn Emily's attention. She peered down from the stairs, lithe fingers firmly grasping the banister.

"Where are you going, Hannibal?"

A grunt as he looked for his keys by the front door. They lay atop an antique sewing machine next to the mail basket. "To the hospital, I just got paged. Don't wait up, dear." he looked back to Emily, who had stepped down a couple of steps.

"Oh, I won't." she smiled and shook her head. 

*****

As soon as the garage door was shut Emily rushed from Mischa's bedroom, where the child lay safely asleep, to her office. The keys lay in the pencil drawer of the great mahogany desk, still attached to the flimsy ring they had arrived on in the package. Hurried footsteps sounding on the floor as she headed to a filing cabinet across the room. Tucked in the back was a small box made of inlaid wood. She grabbed it, and shoved it under one arm as she headed from the office. Moments later, she was heading almost pell-mell down the basement steps, not bothering with the lights until she reached the bottom of the steps. 

Light suddenly illuminates the dark basement, causing a cry form the figure duct taped to her right. Emily grins and heads towards the woman, noting that her eyes are squeezed tightly shut. The woman squinted and stared at Emily through slits. Noises emanated from behind the duct tape, most likely obscenities or pleas. Not that Emily would pay much attention to either. She set the wood box on the banquet table that was still set up from Rich's little educational evening. She noted that Lisa's eyes looked to the box and then back to Emily.

"Good evening, Lisa. I'm so glad that you could join me this evening." Emily smiled and lifted the lid of the box and reached inside. The first items out were a pair of latex gloves which she slipped on before she withdrew the second object. Fear and curiosity played across her captive's features. Emily set the Harpy down on the table and looked Lisa over.

"Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back." Then she was gone, off to the other side of the room, into the shadows in a far corner. She reappeared wheeling a dolly back over to stand in front of Lisa. The dolly's load was what seemed to be a pole wrapped in barb wire in an umbrella stand. Emily slipped the dolly from underneath its load and moved it aside before coming to stand behind Lisa.

"Interesting, isn't it? A friend of mine gave it to me. It originally had a broomstick wrapped in the wire, but I didn't feel that the broomstick was heavy duty enough for the task, don't you agree?" She moved around and found the crank on the stand. "Allow me to demonstrate, Lisa. See, it turns round and round like this." She smiled up at the gardener, eyes flashing with laughter. "Oh, this will be fun Lisa."

Lisa struggles within the bonds, trying the get away, even though she knew her efforts would be futile. Eyes track her and her breathing and pulse rate jump as she sees Emily pick up and open the knife. The Harpy is held under her nose for a moment as Emily speaks again.

"A little word of warning, I haven't attempted anything like this before. Well, I have dissected people, but that was in med school with the use of cadavers and scalpels and the whole bit. As for a vivisection with the use of a Harpy blade and no anesthetic of any of the useful items from med school, well…" she paused and dropped her hand holding the blade, scoring a line down Lisa's bare abdomen. "We'll just have to find out, now won't we?"

*****


	14. Into the Dark

Okay, be forewarned, this is not going to be pretty. It may not be an accurate description, but it is quite bloody. So, those with weak stomachs and the like may want to turn away for a bit. Oh, and I must bow down to Fauna. Dear, you are kicking butt with your story!!! Okey dokey then, that said, here we go.

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A single drop of blood, almost the same as a tear rolls from just below Lisa's navel to fall slowly towards the floor. Only one tiny drop of the many that fill her body. Tears creep down her cheeks, sliding across the grey of the duct tape. If Emily takes any notice of this, she does not show it. The Harpy blade is wicked in the fluorescent lighting of the basement. Choked sobs come from behind the duct tape, a counterpoint to the humming of the seemingly mad doctor. She is watching the blood seep from the wound with an abnormal intensity. The temptation proves to be too much and she bows her head t the wound that mars the pale flesh. Blood remains on her lips as she stands back up. looking to Lisa, eyes wild and glowing.

"I have a penchant for blood, something from my youth." she talks as if this is nothing more than a conversation being held on the back patio about the roses and how they're growing this year. The absolute normal tone of her voice is even more frightening than if she were screaming at Lisa. "I didn't think of it before, but this is going to be difficult with you standing. Ah well, we'll make do." A careless shrug of her shoulders and Emily once again lowered the blade to Lisa's abdomen. "My husband once asked one of his victims 'Bowels in or out?' Somehow I don't think you get that option."

Even without the ability to open her mouth Lisa's scream was very audible. The smell of blood quickly filled the air, tainting it with a metallic sourness. Still humming and ignoring Lisa's panting breath and the now copious tears she continued with her activities. She grimaced as she laid the Harpy aside and reached into the abdominal cavity. It was difficult to grasp, but Emily managed, grinning as she gave a sharp tug. she watched the intestines tumble free, slick and ropy. Emily barely heard the screams emanating between the whimpers from Lisa's throat as she reached for the Harpy once again. 

One quick slice, and the end of the intestines were free from the body. Emily lifted them to the light peering at them, ignoring the blood form the gaping wound and the body itself. Lisa's eyes were wide in terror as Emily slapped the free end against the barb wire. It slid quickly and she made a grab for it, tucking it in between the coils around the pole.

"Painful, little Lisa?" she looked at the eyes squeezed shut, the cries of pain coming from beneath the duct tape. A twist of the handle on the umbrella began the pole turning, drawing the loosed intestines around it. The smell of fear and blood and meat was heavy in the air. Emily hummed the aria to the _Goldberg Variations_ as she turned the pole, watching the reaction of her victim. She didn't hear the slow footsteps coming down the stairs. She stood upright in total shock when she heard the voice.

*****


	15. Visitors and Requests

The small voice seemed amazingly large in the strange atmosphere of the basement. Both Emily and Lisa stared wild eyed at the intruder.

"Mommy, I can't sleep." Two year old Michelle Starling Rinaldi stood not ten feet from the bloodshed, clutching a chocolate brown teddy bear almost as large as she was. She stared up at her mother and protector with large maroon eyes. The Harpy clattered from Emily's hands as she rushed to the child.

"Oh god, Mischa!" she scooped her daughter into her arms and held her close against her, ignoring the blood slicked hands that were marring the pale pink footed jammies.

"Mommy, whatcha doin?" Lisa whimpered in the background, and Mischa's intent gaze sought her face. "She hurt, Mommy."

"Oh god, oh god, oh god." it was becoming a mantra for Emily as she stood there with her daughter. The question caused Emily to turn her daughter away from the ghastly sight that was set before them. For the first time Emily was frightened by what she saw. Blood pooled on the plastic covered floor, a woman bound to a pole with her intestines looped out and around the barb wire wrapped pole.

_Dear God, what have I become?_ The thought lasted only an instant before she slipped back into the black void that she had come to know so well. The horror of the situation vanished as quickly as it had become apparent. She set Mischa on the table and kissed her forehead lightly.

"Mommy will be done in just a moment, Miss Mischa, okay?" she reached for the Harpy and gripped it with a fierce resolve. As she bent once again to the crank handle on the stand she looked up to Mischa. "Cover your eyes, Mischa."

*****

Dr. Hannibal Lecter returned to his home three hours later in a very foul mood. After arriving at the hospital he'd been sent on a wild goose chase, from the ER to the psych ward. Seemingly, no one knew why he was there since no one had called for a consult. He had voiced his unhappy opinion to the heads of both areas before leaving the hospital. It had taken all his resolve _not_ to teach either department head a little lesson about rudeness. He came into the house and was shrugging off the overcoat when he noticed the basement door stood wide open. Curiosity grabbed him and he headed down the steps.

The sight that greeted him once he reached the basement was horrific. Tied to a metal pole in the right side of the basement was a woman he knew as their gardener. He rushed over to her, wary of the blood slicked surface beneath the soles of his shoes. Her intestines were strung out and wrapped around a strange barb wire and pole contraption. The smell was awful and he was reminded momentarily of a very old and painful memory. He reached for the woman's neck, and as his fingers brushed against it, the woman's eyes flashed open. They were dulled and hay from the pain and blood loss, but they came to focus on him. He was even more surprised when the ruin spoke.

"Dr. Lecter, I presume?" the words were barely a whisper, and they sounded strained. He blinked, measuring them.

"Yes. How do you know who I am?"

"She told me you were going to come. Thought it would scare me." a rasp that might have been a laugh escaped her lips. She paused, trying to draw breath as her life bled from her. "I'm not scared, but can I ask you something?"

A moment's pause, then, "Of course."

"I'm not going to beg or plead, just… A favor if you would. She left me here to die, slowly, and it would be much appreciated if you would kindly dispatch me, sir."

Well spoken and articulate even in the cold shadow of death. He stared at the woman. Emily had done this on purpose, to see what he would do. To see if he would take an innocent life. But to leave this woman here to die slowly would be cruel, and it would be kinder, much kinder, to simply end her life after the torture she had obviously received. The thoughts tumbled through his mind and he came on a decision, hand dipping back into his pocket and finding the blade that was always there now.

"Why did she do this?" he didn't realize he had asked the question aloud until the woman's eyes met his.

"For revenge, Doctor."  
Hannibal Lecter was motionless for a moment, then the Harpy was across her throat in a flash. "Forgive me." came the tiniest of whispers. He did not look back as he wiped the Harpy and headed for the stairs.

*****


	16. Broken Tiles

The first sound that occurred to him as he topped the stairs in approach to the bed room was the echoing sound of the door at the end of the hall in the dungeon slamming shut. It's quite frightening to hear such a sound in context to your free life. His feet feel leaden as he approaches the door to the bedroom, and he pauses outside of it. No, he cannot go in, he cannot face her right now. He digs through the linen closet and removes a few sheet and a blanket or tow before heading to the living room. He lay in the darkness wondering about the awful question of what would happen next.

*****

It was the screams that woke her, causing her to bolt upright in her bed, sheets wrapped in a tangled mess around her. It took her moments, long tedious moments in the morning sunlight, to realize that the screams were coming, and from her own lips nonetheless. It frightened her madly as she managed to close her mouth, clamping it tight against her voice. It only served to silence her own, as they continued in her mind, echoing through the corridors of her palace. She could name the owners of the screams with deadly accuracy, and that too frightened her. Screams from Rich and Lisa, from the unnamed caterer laying in the alley way. Above them all, angry screams, the vile sounds that she had known as her company for so many years. The voice of Marian Christophersen rang above them all, condemning her. 

Emily threw the sheets aside and literally ran to the bathroom, barricading herself in the shower and turning the stream full blast upon her body. The icy water streamed down her cheeks as she leaned against the cold tiles that lined the walls, feeling the hot tears stream down her cheeks to join the cold water of the shower, combining and being washed down the drain. The screams began to diminish, save for her mother's voice, which still rang through the corridors. A heavy sob racked her body and she felt the lines on her face as her eyes pinched shut. The image of the old woman gnarled and wasted behind the dark steel bars. The bitterness in those cobalt eyes as she glared out from her imprisonment. Emily could hear the coarse voice as she leaned close to the bars.

_"You always knew you'd be just like your mother, little Emily. How could you ever believe you could be anything else?"_

Emily struck out blindly with her fist and struck the tiles underneath the shower head, above the faucet knobs, and se felt the tile crack. She felt the pain run through her arm and her legs go out beneath her. She felt the rushing of the icy water as her head struck the back wall of the shower and she slipped into a black void filled with her mother's screams.

*****

When Emily finally came back to the here and now, she found herself no longer on the floor of the shower being pummeled by the cold water, but tucked securely in bed. She blinked slowly, trying to come to grips with her surroundings and get her bearings. A wave of pain and nausea washed over her as she tried to raise herself up to a sitting position. A groan escapes her as she lays back down, letting her head sink back into the pillows. The muffled sound of feet on the floor drew her attention from the ceiling and towards the windows. Hannibal was rising from a chair in the corner, face grim.

"You're awake, Emily." she could only affirm his observation with a grunt, not really wanting to speak at the moment. The man seemed eerily calm as he neared the bed. A penlight was taken from the bedside table nearest him and he was all business as he checked her pulse and then proceeded to her eyes with the light. Satisfied with her pupils he clicked the light off and raised a slim index finger. "Follow my finger please, Emily. Up and down, side to side. Good. You have a concussion from your fall in the shower. May I inquire as to why you were taking an ice cold shower?"

She looked at him, edging out from under the covers slightly, at least to free her arms. Strange she felt none of the animosity towards him that had been occupying her thoughts of him for the past several weeks. Silence sat between them, an uncomfortable guest.

"No? From what I can gather, you punched the wall and broke one of the tiles, and probably set forth a chain of events that led to your fall. Accurate enough?"

"Yes." she looked guiltily at the down comforter that was clenched in her fingers, then raised her eyes to his. "I broke a tile?"

"Yes, and luckily not your hand, although, you do have some awful bruises now. Seeking pain as a remedy, Emily?"

"Sort of. I was trying to make them go away."

"Make who go away?"

She thought she sounded like a child who had been caught stealing and was now being ordered to confess. Amazingly, her gaze never wavered from his eyes, but she was not finding any compassion there. She wasn't finding much of anything in them, just cold and staring maroon eyes. "Her screams. They were in my head and I couldn't get rid of them."

"So that is why you took the cold shower?"

"Yes, all those screams. God, what did I do…?"

Still nothing in his eyes, she looked away and at her hands, flexing the fingers before her, staring at them as if she had never seen them before.

"About last night, Emily. The woman in our basement.."

"Lisa." she supplied, not looking from her hands.

"She said you did it for revenge. Revenge, Emily?"

Lisa. Blood. Harpy. Mischa. Mischa. Mischa… Emily's eyes went wide as she saw her daughter in the basement once again. Saw the wide eyes of a child who did not comprehend what she was seeing. Setting her on the table.

_"Cover your eyes Mischa."_

She was out of the bed in an instant, losing balance as she pulled herself to her feet and made her way unsteadily form the room. "Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god…" She gritted her teeth against the nausea as she stumbled into Mischa's room, finding the child still asleep in her bed. Peaceful and angelic. She felt strong hands grasp her arms and hold her upright.

"What did you do to our daughter, Emily?" The voice was cold, glacially cold and calm in its tone, with all the same power behind it. The grip tightened, she would discover the bruises tomorrow, and she looked back over her shoulder at him. 

"She saw… she saw.." she couldn't get anymore out than that before she collapsed into sobs.

Hannibal's pallor now matched his wife's, and he let her loose long enough to turn her to face him. "What did she see, Emily?" it was a low hiss, and the sound of it hummed madly in Emily's ears.

"Lisa, she came downstairs last night and saw Lisa. I told her to cover her eyes."

*****


	17. Prisoner in Her Own Home

Okay, okay… There will be giant radioactive ants, in the NEXT story. Somehow I've been lured into writing this really campy horror tale, so everyone prepare yourselves. Anyhoo, they really don't have a place in this tale, so I hope you will all be patient with me in waiting for them. And here I thought I could write you guys a story or two, then sink back into obscurity. Fat chance of that happening, though I have to say I'm enjoying this. Okay, enough blathering, back to what's important: The chapter!

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Silence. The sound of it was deafening, even though she had been longing for it for days now. The screams had finally stopped, but she didn't really recall how or when, it was just… quiet. Quiet and warm, and not in her own bed. She rolled over and felt out the distance between her and the edge with her foot. Small bed, not the huge king that she was accustomed to. Twin maybe. The sheets could be felt slipping across her silk pajamas, and she identified the source of the warmth. She blinked and focused on the window which was facing east, allowing the morning sun to stream in. She was in the guest bedroom above the porch. As to why she was in there, that was her next question. Slowly working her way through the 'Five W's' that had been ingrained in her in grade school. Who, what, when, where, why. 

Emily had gathered the when and where and what, now to surmise the why and who as to her current location. Who is a relatively easy question, since there was only one person who would place her here. Okay, so Dr. Hannibal Lecter had placed her in the guest room. She hadn't remembered coming in here with him. Odd, she didn't really remember anything of the past few days. She slowly sat up, careful of the lingering knot on her skull from her shower accident and the dizzy spell that was now accompanying her movements. A glass of water sat on a bedside table, along with two white pills. The water was cool to the touch, but not cold, indicating that it had been there for a little while. The pills, thankfully nothing more than aspirin. She swallowed them with a sip of the water. 

Emily pushed herself up from the bed, slipping her feet into a conveniently placed pair of slippers. A dressing gown hung from a hanger on the door. The bookshelves that lined the room were dusty and she made a mental note to have Marta dust up here next week. She could hear a child's laughter coming faintly through the door, and she reached for the knob. A twist and the only thing that moved was her hand on the knob. She crouches and looks at the knob. The one off the basement door, installed with the lock on the outside of the door. Emily took a deep breath, standing again, and running a hand back through her hair. A prisoner on her own home.

No answers in that moment, only an additional one being piled on top. Surprised that she didn't have an urge to scream and try to break down the door itself, she retreated to the bed. She sat on the edge of it, staring forlornly at the obstacle to her freedom. He had better have had a good reason for doing this. One does not encourage trust within a marriage by locking ones spouse in the guest room. _Nor does one encourage trust by killing people,_ intoned a little voice in the back of her mind. Cold ran through her body as effectively as if the blood in her veins had been turned to ice water. She had murdered not just one, but three people. And for what purpose? Before she could begin to decipher an answer there came a gentle knock on the door. She blinked, unable to command her mouth to speak. They came again after a few moments, three precise raps.

"Come in." she found her voice and heard a key in the lock. Her pulse had elevated as she waited on the bed, tense and struggling to control the fight or flight response. The door opened and Hannibal stepped in, carrying a tray with him. He didn't quite smile at her as he set the tray on the desk, and then turned to close the door. Emily watched him with the eyes of a curious bird, questions tickled her lips but she couldn't find a way to voice them, so she just watched. 

Dr. Lecter drew the old desk chair away from the desk and moved it to sit in front of his wife. She looked like she was ready to bolt at the slightest noise, eyes wide and round as she watched him. She still looked tired, but better than he had seen in past days. She blinked once or twice during the minutes that followed, but did not react beyond that. Surely she wanted to know why she was being imprisoned. A loud burst of laughter followed by a shrill yell came up the stairs. He watched as her perception left him and focused on the door. Palms were placed on the bed, ready to propel her forward on motherly instinct.

"Who's with our daughter?" it was a little above a whisper as she glanced from door back to his eyes. There was fear in them, as if she would think that he would put his baby girl in harm's way.

"An old friend, I assure you, she is in safe hands." She regarded this for an instant, then relaxed a little, bringing her hands back into her lap. Her head shifted and she looked around the room, gaze deftly sliding everywhere where he was not. They settled on him after another few minutes of silence and study of the armoire in the corner. She drew a deep breath, preparing herself to ask the single question that was hammering through her mind.

"Why?"

No indication of what it was referring to. The why of her imprisonment, the why of her actions, the why of his being here now. General and demanding an answer. But where to begin? At the beginning of course.

"You've made much progress over the past few days, Emily. Not that I expect you to remember much. We've talked, delved into your shadows and have begun to dispel them."

"How?"

"A number of hypnotics. Similar to what I used on you in Baltimore. Much more similar to those I used on Clarice in Chesapeake."

"Oh." she was quiet and not willing to really go beyond monosybillic words for the moment. He continued, talking to her in a calm manner, voice as soft as the silk she was clothed in.

"What you did, Emily was…" _Wrong?_ he questioned himself. That was tantamount to informing himself that the deeds he had committed were also wrong. What word then? He was at a loss, as he had been on the subject for the past seventy two hours. She noted his lack of words and finally spoke something more to him.

"You want to say 'wrong', Hannibal? Then say it, and condemn yourself along with me." the words were not spoken with a hint of anger in them. Just soft, but unyielding, laying out the truth. A shadow of a smile fluttered across her lips, gone as quickly as a shooting star. She knew what she was, knew what he was, and was willing to see it for what it was.

"I killed. Part of me is frightened by this, part of me is not." She was finding explanations for herself, and trying to grasp them as best she could. "The part of me that's not frightens me. It is the one that assures me that it is okay to do the things that I did." She waited for him to say 'Its not' even though she knew he wouldn't, almost couldn't.

"My mother was a murderer, I reveled in pain in my youth. Took pleasure from seeing myself physically dominate others. You made me face that and offered yourself to me. Your flesh and blood."

"You didn't take it."

"No, I didn't. I took it from others, when I became overwhelmed. I never did take it from you."

"Why not Emily?" Hannibal felt himself lean forward, watching her as she spoke.

"There's still something stopping me."

*****


	18. Thornless Rose

The prick of a thornless rose is a poison in my soul.

*****

Scents of popcorn and hot dogs waft on the fall breeze, tantalizing passerby young and old alike. Calliope music is also carried as an overtone to the scents, gleeful playful music accompanying the laughter and shouts of children. The smiles on their faces as they ride the painted steeds are wonderful, full of life and hope. One of the mothers riding on the platform, carefully balancing a child on the saddle of one of the steeds, mirrors the joy in the faces of the children around her. She beams and waves as she circles past, laughing as she does so. So vibrant on this fall day, he notes, watching from a picnic table just this side of the rail around the carousel. Maroon eyes watch her intently from beneath a white fedora perched low over his eyes, effectively blocking the sun from them. A smile crosses his lips as the two women in his life pass round again, his daughter waving happily this time.

"She looks happy today." a voice at his side offers, watching the carousel slow and the calliope begin to wind down.

"I truly believe she is, Barney." Dr. Lecter replied, standing from the picnic bench and approaching the exit gate. He catches a glimpse of his daughter hugging her painted pony and planting a kiss on its mane before she disembarks with help from her mother. The toddler runs ahead, slamming into her father's leg as she greets him.

"Daddy! I rode a PONY!" she informs him, giggling as she is scooped up into the air. 

"So I saw." he replies, looking into her wide eyes.

Mischa turned her head over her father's shoulder and looked at the large black man standing behind them. "Didja see too, Barney?"

"I saw, Mischa." 

Emily looked up at the man who was once the ward nurse when her husband was imprisoned in the asylum. He was large and powerful, and his voice was high and hoarse. Three weeks ago, after Emily's murder of Lisa, he had come to their home at the request of Dr. Lecter. Two weeks ago he had been her keeper, bringing her meals and keeping an eye on her during her forced imprisonment in the guest room. Last week, he had been her escort when she went to the store while Hannibal was at the office in Larkspur. Today, he was a friend accompanying the family on a trip to the zoo. The two men stood together with a happily chattering Mischa as Emily fetched the stroller from where it was parked under a eucalyptus tree.

A normal family, for all outward appearances. Mischa made her adored animal apparent as Hannibal strapped her into the stroller.

"Wanna see elphans." she informed him, grabbing the proffered sippy cup form her mother and using it to point at a sign, which displayed an elephant. "Elphans!" she cried again, before raising the cup to her mouth.

Emily grinned from behind the stroller, looking over at her husband, who returned her smile. She felt his hand present a gentle pressure on the small of her back as she began to move the stroller forward. Barney walked a few paces ahead, and Mischa held forth in a conversation with him, presumably about her beloved 'elphans' from the eagerness of her voice. Hannibal leaned close to Emily's ear as they paused at the next exhibit, looking in on a lazy tiger that basked in the sun.

"You look well, Emily."

She tingled from the voice in her ear, a reaction she had never been able to rid herself of. "I feel well, Han." she replied, turning her head to look at him, brushing a strand of red hair from her face. She looked into his eyes and fortunately, for once, didn't see anything in them. She smiled and he brushed a kiss against her lips. 

"No urges?" he asked, he had been watching her carefully throughout their outing today. She hadn't reacted adversely to anything or anyone. Perhaps the monster and the shadows were back where they belonged.

"None." she assured him, returning his favor and quickly kissing him. "Thank you." she whispered as she put the stroller into motion again. The small entourage set off through the zoo, happy and content, and without any demons haunting them.

*****


	19. First Day Back

"Have you seen my file for Mrs. DesRochers?" Emily's voice floated from her downstairs office as she dug through a pile on her desk. The file in question was still not there, and she could not remember seeing it anywhere else in the office. Her first day back at work, and she was a disaster. A briefcase sits open in the middle of the mahogany desk, already filled with a dozen other patient files that she had been going over the previous night. A couple of interesting articles sat atop those and she glared at them as she riffled through them, wondering if she had already placed the file into the stack. Once again, it was not there. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, staring at the wall, trying to remember. 

"Hannibal have you seen…" She began to call out and cut herself off when she saw him standing in the doorway, wincing at the volume of her tone. "Sorry." she muttered sheepishly, then continuing with her question. "Have you seen my file on Mrs. DesRochers?" Thankfully he handed her the manila folder and she flipped through it and then dropped it into the briefcase. She closed the case and hefted it off the desk, grabbing a paperback book off the desk in her free hand. She shooed her husband out of the doorway and into the hall where she set the briefcase down while she donned a coat.

"Where was it anyway?" she asked as she passed an overcoat to him. 

"Upstairs, on the chair in the bedroom. You were reading it in bed last night, Emily." Hannibal informed her, watching as she reached for the case again.

"Oh, right." she paused as she grasped the handle of the briefcase, looking at him. "I think I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached today." she grinned and headed for the kitchen. Barney and Mischa were seated at the table, finishing their breakfast. The toddler hadn't told anyone what she had seen in the basement that evening, but her parents hadn't wanted to take any chances. Barney had been given the role of babysitter, something much more pleasant than watching over a grown woman who had been murdering people. Emily kissed Mischa's head as the child pushed her waffles through the pool of syrup on her plate. She grinned at Barney and headed back to the hallway where her husband was waiting for her.

Emily settled into the passenger seat of the Jag after throwing her briefcase into the back seat. The day was bright with a few clouds and a wind coming in off the ocean. She cracked the window a bit and closed her eyes, feeling the car back down the driveway. The volume on the stereo was low but she could still hear the voice of the news reporter on NPR. Too bad it wasn't the weekend, Emily would have preferred to listen to _Car Talk_ or even _A Prairie Home Companion_ instead of the news. The thought of _A Prairie Home Companion_ brought a wistful smile to her lips, since she would never be allowed to listen to that with Hannibal in the car. He detested the show, and refused to let it on in his presence. There were times when she felt that he needed to get more fun out of life.

Traffic slowed as they neared the Golden Gate, and Emily opened her eyes and rolled the window down fully. She was glad for her coat as the morning was still a little cool but she relished the scent of eucalyptus and salt water that hung in the air. She reached for the radio dial and turned up the volume. Hannibal remained silent as they listened to the traffic reports for the Bay Area. There was an accident just past the tunnel on the Marin side of the bridge and Emily grimaced, glancing at the clock.

"We're going to be late." she murmured, looking at the slow snarl of vehicles that preceded them onto the bridge. Hannibal patted her leg in reassurance.

"We'll be fine, Emily. Relax."

*****

She was poring over patient files once again when the quiet knock came at her office door. She peered over the tops of her reading glasses and smiled, relieved fro the interruption. She reached for the stereo remote that lay on the desk and thumbed down the volume. She had given into the morning's temptation and was listening to her CDs of _A Prairie Home Companion_ in between patients. She took note of the grimace on his face as he stepped fully into the office. 

"Hey, it's my office and I can listen to whatever I want." she protested before he could say anything. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and she had one more patient at four fifteen. She continued making notes as he sat down before the desk. 

"I never said you couldn't listen to what you want, Emily." he looked towards the speakers as the imitation of a fog horn range softly over them, followed by the audience's laughter. Emily grabbed the remote and thumbed the volume down another couple notches. "My point exactly." Hannibal continued.

Emily looked at him as she took off the glasses, holding them with her thump and forefinger and using them to point at him. "You, sir, need to get more fun out of life."

"I'll take that to heart, my dear."

"So…."

"So?"

"Why are you here? I'm fine Hannibal, have been all day." waving a hand over her desk she grinned. "See? No sharp objects."

He smiled easily, nodding at her display. "So I see. Actually, I'm going to stay late this evening, I have a few things to finish up here. And I have a late scheduled patient. Mr. Jacob Leeds, coming in after he leaves his office, I agreed to see him."

Not even a moment of silence had passed before Emily perked up. "I could take the ferry home, Han. Really, it'll be fine."

Hannibal considered it for a few moments, watching his wife's face. She looked like an eager child, asking for, and desperately wanting permission, to go and do what she wanted. It had been almost a month since she had committed the murder of their gardener. And she had been doing well in their quiet therapy sessions at home. Perhaps it was time to let her have a little of her freedom back.

"That would be fine, Emily." 

"Thank you." She smiled broadly at him. "Ill catch a cab once I'm in the city." Nodding, he stood from the chair and returned her smile. Allowing her to take the ferry home, and then a cab. What harm could come of that? Only later would Hannibal realize how mistaken he would be in judging his wife's progress in fighting the shadows and her ambitions.

*****


	20. A Poison In My Soul

Disclaimer: No animals were hurt in the making of this chapter. Funny, I can kill people on a whim, and not bat an eye, but I cringe at the thought of even thinking of harming an animal. Hmmmm, makes you wonder, doesn't it? 

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The ferry building at the Port of San Francisco, as the red neon letters proudly proclaim, seems to be constantly undergoing renovations. There are a number of halls leading from the ferry docks to the Embarcadero in front, and it always seems that you are directed to take a different hallway every time you come in. Down the barricaded hall for the day there is a faint noise, as if you were standing outside the theater doors while a horror film was showing. A semblance of a scream, but not quite identifiable. The noise is gone as quickly as it comes and none of the disembarking passengers pay it any mind as they scurry through the rabbit's warren of passages.

*****

An old oak desk sits massive in the midst of the small office, overpowering it with sheer size. A fluorescent tube in the lighting overhead flickers madly, indicative of nearing the end of its life span. In the far corner, away from the desk, a golden retriever strains at its harness, unable to bark or snap from the duct tape wrapped around its muzzle. Low growls are issued from its throat though and its fur bristles as it continues its vain struggles.

A young woman sits duct taped to the rolling office chair, with another piece of tape secured over her mouth. Strangely, the line that comes to her captor's mind is 'When the going gets tough, the tough use duct tape!' and it causes a brief chuckle. She is wiping down a large heavy duty stapler, the kind that can handle large amounts of paper. The cloth she is using is stained with blood, and she is careful to turn the rag over to find dry areas to continue her clean up efforts. In moments, the stapler is returned to the shelf from whence it came. The tormentor looks down on her detainee once more as she checks the office for any other sign that she had been there. The pale skin of the girl's face is almost ashen in color now, and her eyes hazed from the pain. Pale blue, like the sky this morning as she had driven over the bridge this morning. Blonde roots were beginning to show against the red hair, indicating that the captive needed to visit the salon once again. Well, that little errand might have to wait a little while. 

Blood was seeping across the desktop at an agonizingly slow pace, and the tormentor was restraining herself from lowering her head to it and lapping at it like a cat at a saucer of cream. No, not today, not with this one. A month had been much to long to keep herself in check. So long without any outlet for the rage inside, the monster clamoring to be released from its dungeon cell. She had once more bowed to the shadows' whims and released it, letting her control slip. Really, if the dog hadn't been barking at her the entire time on the ferry, and if the girl hadn't been so rude when Emily had asked her to silence the dog. Ah well, such is life. Emily reached out and tapped the girls finger, eliciting a cry of pain from beneath the tape. 

Emily had stapled the dear's fingers to the desk and had been amusing herself with the pain by poking under the girl's nails with a paper clip. A row of pencils lay lined up before her on the desk, all freshly sharpened, but Emily couldn't bring herself to kill the child. It would have been interesting, though, to use the pencils to reenact the old Wound Man illustration. Emily saw the blood on her fingertip and she raised it to her lips. A check of her watch indicated that she needed to get moving if she still intended to beat Hannibal home from the office. She smiled at the girl and then turned for the door.

"Hope you've learned some manners, Anouk." she used the name she had heard the other girls call her by on the ferry. It always paid to be observant. "Keep a tighter leash on your pup next time." and with that, Emily was gone from the office, easily winding her way through the halls and out into the twilight on the Embarcadero. Five minutes after that, she was in a cab and headed for her home and daughter. The girl would never be able to inform the police as to her attacker's identity when they found her some twenty minutes after that, owing to the fact that she was blind.

*****

She was settled into the couch, lounging against Hannibal later that evening, just watching the glow of the fireplace. Barney had retired to his room in the renovated attic and Mischa was tucked soundly into her bed. All was at peace with the world, as far as appearances went. Emily's left hand played with the wedding band on her husband's hand as she reached with her right for the glass of port that sat on the coffee table. It had been the last bottle of Danielle, and Emily had reminded herself that she needed to plan a trip up to Healdsburg soon. She sipped at the wine as she relaxed, feeling Hannibal's hand close around hers. She closed her eyes and relaxed even further, happy and content in the moment. She had no qualms about her evenings activities, showed no outward reaction as she had seen the story on the late night news.

No, her only fear was that the police would find the butchered body of Lisa soon. Hannibal had assured her that they wouldn't, at least not anytime within the near future. Bringing her out of this thought, she felt him stirring beneath her. Emily adjusted her position, realizing that he had said something to her. She met his eyes, and they were slightly terrifying in the firelight.

"Hmmmm?"

"If I offered you the chance to take my life again Emily, would you do it?" he repeated, voice low in her ear, gaze never wavering.

It was food for thought. Although Emily couldn't quite conjure up an answer for him at this time. She mulled over it for a moment or two, reaching for her glass of port again, and only after sipping it did she find a response. 

"Ask me again later. Now is not the time for thoughts like those."

He took the glass from her and sipped at it as well before he responded to her answer. "Why not, Emily?" His response came as she rolled over and captured his mouth in a kiss, hands reaching up into his dark hair. Hannibal's hand managed to return the glass unsteadily to the coffee table before reaching up to entwine his fingers in her own hair.

"Oh, Emily." he murmured as she left his lips, trailing kisses down his neck. She snuggled against him and sighed. It had been so long.

*****


	21. Unicorn

Impatient little buggers, aren't you? More than twelve hours between chapters, and I start to hear the sound of Harpys being flicked open. Not reassuring, dear ones. Anyhoo, without further ado, the chapter awaits.

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The night was frighteningly quiet, as nothing stirred in the darkness. No wind, no movement of any kind of the air. The silence was heavy in the backyard, as the crickets had long ago sung their last songs of the season. The skies above were blanketed thickly with stars, and the city of San Jose glitters far below. It is the first time they have been up to the observatory when there wasn't a hellish wind trying to blow them over the edge. Emily leaned against the railing looking down from the parking lot, relishing in the fresh air.

Lick Observatory is one of the University of California's observatories. It is located at the summit of Mount Hamilton, in the Diablo Mountain Range, at an elevation of 4,200 feet above sea level. Mt. Hamilton Road, which leads up to the summit is a gnarled winding road that rests on a grade originally laid out in 1876. The road was built espressly for the observatory by Santa Clara County. One who has motion sickness is thoroughly distressed from climbing and descending this narrow highway. The emergency helipad that sits adjacent to the road was once the site of a clay deposit and kilns that were used to make the bricks that were used to build the observatory's buildings. Mountain residents still refer to it as 'the Brickyard'. 

The social elite of San Francisco had an annual tour up here, after hours, so they could get the chance to view the telescopes and probe the heavens. Mrs. DeGraffe of the opera board had organized this year's event, and the small group was wandering the summit before their tour of the main telescope. Hannibal stood on the steps to the observatory behind him, watching his wife. She wore dark slacks and a white silk blouse, which shone like a pearl in the moonlight. Not a good night for stargazing, with the overpowering moonlight that bathed the world. Carrying through the still air was Mrs. DeGraffe's high chirpy voice, clearly being ignored by her husband. Emily didn't move, resembling the night air that surrounded them.

A graduate student appears from the cafeteria down below the observatory, calling out in his strongest voice that he wishes for the group to gather around so they can begin their tour. Mrs. DeGraffe, feeling that the young man's voice is not of the proper volume or assertiveness, begins to repeat his instructions. She heads around the road gathering the other socialites and sounding much like a mother hen. Hannibal steps down from his post as he hears her call up the slope to them, and still Emily does not turn. He crosses the lot to him and reaches out to her elbow. A breeze begins to come up at just that moment, whipping a few strands of copper hair into her eyes. 

"Come, Emily, before Sarah sends a search party up here after us." Emily didn't react to the slight tug on her arm. "What are you thinking about, Emily?"

Her head slowly turns to his, eyes reflecting the pale sphere of moonlight in her pupils. It was slightly eerie in context. "Just thinking, Hannibal." She released the top bar on the rail and stepped back, turning and moving out of his grip. She walked imperiously across the asphalt to the stairs that led down to the road below where the group waited.

"About what?" he asked, no more than a few steps behind her. She paused at the foot of the first stair, allowing him to catch up to her. If her eyes were eerie before, they were downright frightening now.

"Blood."

And with that, she was moving again, down the stairs, taking the terrain with fluid ease. Waving down at Mrs. DeGraffe as the older woman waved back up at her. It was in that simple answer that he knew. That he had been wrong in laying his trust in her once again. His legs were stiff as he followed his wife down the stairs. The rest of the evening was a blur to him, he didn't hear anything of the lecture's their guide had prepared. Saw nothing as they walked under the moonlight. She had occupied his mind fully, and he almost regretted having asked the question.

*****

The Jaguar handles the tight curves of Mt. Hamilton Road well, fluid and graceful as it races down the mountain. The observatory is nineteen miles outside of downtown San Jose, but may as well be a world away by the time you reach the foot of the peak and drive through the valley below. The interior of the car is unnaturally silent, even though there is music playing over the speakers. Emily is laid back in her seat, looking out the tinted window at the surrounding night. Hannibal has his eyes steadfastly focused on the road as they descend. It is a wonder that she does not become carsick, laying like that and watching the world fly by. Cast-iron stomach had she. As the coast into the valley below he finally speaks, breaking the spell.

"What did you do yesterday, Emily?"

A sigh, and the sound of silk on leather as she adjusted herself in the seat. Fingers tap out the rhythm on the arrest on the door as she draws out an answer. "Nothing, really. Just a little amusement."

"I put my trust in you."

"Hmmmm. Yes." The reply was low and languid, like a slow moving river. She obviously didn't see her actions of any consequence. "I lied. Not the first time, you know."

It was a test of his will to keep his eyes focused on the road illuminated by the headlights. "Why?"

He heard the whir of the motor and the silk on leather sound again as she raised the reclined seat back to a sitting position. He caught a glimpse of her face in the passing light from another vehicle. Calm. With an awful smile on her lips. It spoke volumes about how much she was enjoying things.

"Did I ever ask you 'why?', Hannibal? No. As you're so fond of saying, _quid pro quo_."

"This is not about me, Emily. It's about you." He braked and took hairpin turn as if to emphasize his point. She remained in that odd state with her hands clasped neatly in her lap. 

They were coming in towards some of the houses that were nestled in the hills overlooking San Jose, there were random streetlamps. She chilled him as they passed under one, and she turned to him once again.

"It's more about you than you know, Hannibal." She winked quickly before she continued. "Remember, the threshold I refuse to pass won't always be there to hold me back."

*****

He found sleep was uneasy in coming when they were finally back in San Francisco. He lay beneath the down comforter and watched her chest rise and fall with the deep breath of sleep. Imprisoning her again was not an option, since she would not be so willing to accept it this time. Taking her to a 'mental health professional' would do nothing either. She herself was one and could pass each and every test thrown at her without even batting an eye. He himself was one, and she had deceived him as well. Not thoroughly, he conceded, as he had had his doubts as to her progress, but he had put his trust in her. Trust. Hannibal rolled onto his back with his hands clasped over his chest, closing hi eyes and listening to the sounds of breathing, hers and his own. The notion of trust was so far flung now that it seemed to be a unicorn. But he would chase it until he had his sweet, sweet Emily back again.

*****


	22. A House Divided

Fun? You don't know the half of it, dear Steel. Really, I believe that Emily took over the about six chapters ago and I've been relegated to recording events. I feel sorry for the GD, she is really something else in this one. Losing your trust in me, dear Chameleon? Really, now. Actually, I am the last person that you'd expect to be writing something like this. No need to go changing your addy, I'm a nice person. (and of course, no one believes me when I say that.) Okey dokey then, onward ho, its time for a bit more fun.

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A house divided makes for interesting dinner conversation.

-Jeanne Wagner

*****

Old sixties tunes are piped over the speakers as she browses through the store. Picking up throw pillows and other living room items as she poked through the shelves. Really, she didn't need any more pillows in the living room. Perhaps in the bedroom? She could use redecorating as an excuse. Oh, and those curtains. True, Pottery Barn wasn't Hannibal's idea of upscale, but she adored many of the items the retailer offered. She grinned as she headed over to the curtains, tugging on a linen curtain to look at it in the light. Small crystals were strewn about it, catching the light and the eye. She waved over her companion for the day, nodding at the fabric in her hands.

"What do you think, Barney? For the guest room. I think it needs some color." she contemplated the curtain for a moment. "Or maybe in the office. Or the front room. Pretty color, isn't it?"

Barney thoroughly overshadowed his ward as he came over to join her. He nodded at her question, not offering anything more than a non-committal grunt.

"Hmmmm." she waved a salesclerk over and smiled graciously. Barney remained stoic as she chatted with the other woman, placing an order for the curtains. By the time they left the store a half hour later Emily had what seemed to him half the store being delivered to the house later that week. Shopping was not his idea of a fun day, but it was a welcome change from conversing with a two year old. Emily paused in front of Restoration Hardware looking at the display in the window.

"I really don't need a babysitter, Barney."

Barney looked uncomfortably from the display to her. "I'm sure you don't need a babysitter, doctor, but I also assure you that I am not one."

She waved her hand indicating the terminology was not important. "Babysitter, Barney. I don't care what he said you were, but that's what you are." A quick glance at her left wrist, which bore the Seiko watch and a soft sigh. "I need to stop at the pet store before we hit the market, okay?"

She received a nod in reply and she strode towards the mall exit. Too late already fro heading up to Healdsburg which had originally been on her agenda. Ah well, she would have to wait to head up there, preferably without her doting companion. So he didn't trust her, that had been expected. But to have her escorted whenever she left the house? Really now, she felt that it was a little overboard. It wasn't like she had killed the girl.

*****

There was ice in Emily's gaze as she sat by her husband at the dinner table. Conversation had dropped to a minimum within the past couple of days, the only sound being the cutlery on the dishes. Tonight there had been a slight confrontation over the bills Emily had rung up at Pottery Barn and Williams-Sonoma. Barney concluded that the purchase of kitchen appliances and utensils and other accessories was something that Dr. Lecter normally attended to. Emily was overstepping bounds since she was unhappy with him, in order to make him unhappy. Not a wise move, in Barney's opinion. The rest of the dinner conversation ad been over the twenty gallon aquarium and the guppies and goldfish that Emily had purchased. Oh, and the red-tailed shark, one mustn't forget the shark. The shark was for the better, since she had originally wanted to bring home a piranha. That would have been interesting though. Barney wondered what the good doctor would think of a piranha.

Emily's sudden departure from the dinner table startled everyone. There had been no warning, as far as Barney could tell, and she had suddenly and quietly placed her fork and knife across her plate and pushed her chair from the table. She said something to Dr. Lecter in a language he didn't understand and took Mischa from her chair, and then she was gone. Both men looked at each other and Dr. Lecter noted the confusion in Barney's eyes. He sighed and folded his napkin, placing it on the table.

"Barney, if you wouldn't mind helping me clear."

"Sure, Dr. Lecter." 

*****

Emily sat in the bed, clutching the down comforter to her chest as she balanced the open book on her lap. It wasn't that she was cold, but she didn't like the vulnerable feeling that was creeping through her. She looked at the photograph that was staring back at her, once more feeling the wave of knowing what she had done wash over her. The woman stared back at her with hard eyes. The eyes of a killer, Emily told herself over and over again. The little girl in the photo, the one that had so much fear in her eyes. So long ago. The yellow dress, the one with the frills. The one with the smudge if dirt on the back from sitting on the dock that day. It was coming back once again, and Emily felt tears as she began to realize where it had begun. The sting of her mother's hand striking her face. Her father's gentle touch as he held the ice against to, trying to reduce the swelling. So long ago.

She could hear voices in the living room, easily identified as belonging to Barney and Hannibal. Hannibal. The next piece in the puzzle. Her mother had fostered the anger in her soul, had created the monster that Emily had acknowledged only after her father's death. The taste of her cousin's blood on her hand. The sheer pleasure in having hurt someone else. Oh, it was wonderful. But she had known the danger, had tucked the pleasure away and locked the monster in the dungeon. Safe in the darkness until he had come.

The offer of his flesh and blood. The offer to take his life, to prove a point about her darkness. To let the monster once again see light. She had looked into his eyes that night, had stared down deep into the depths of his soul, into a reflecting pool of night. And had found herself, replicated within him. And he had seen the same within her, knowing even before she had even made her first kill, that she had the will and ability to do so, without remorse. But now… Now that she had let the darkness overrule her almost completely, he was looking at her in a different light. Was she really all that different than he when he had done the same? 

No. The answer was that simple. The events of his life had shaped him into what he had become. Had fashioned a cannibal out of the noted psychiatrist. He knew loss, and was that much the wiser for it. Her life had shaped her in its own ways and measures. The daughter of a woman who was deemed insane and unfit to face trial for the murder of her husband. A woman who had beat her only daughter, and had made sure that the child was brought up in a world of fear. The inability to save her father that night, even after she had hidden away daddy's knives, thinking that she could save him. And here, she had thought she had let all of this go, or so she had told Clarice. Clarice had gone on the battle for good. Her job was to save the lambs. And what had it gained her? A white coffin that now lay in the uncaring earth, next to her father. 

Emily had not been able to save the lambs either. So she was now turning to the other side. If you cannot save them, why not join in the slaughter? The pleasure that had been so carefully hidden had returned, and she reveled in it. The joy when she saw fear in Rich's eyes. The music of the pleading voice of the caterer in the alleyway. Lisa's face when she saw her intestines being hauled out from her body. And little Anouk, writhing and trying to break free as she was secured to the desk. All of the pain brought pleasure to her. And why? Because he had reminded her of it. Reminded her of what she was deep inside. She can still hear the voices in the living room, and she does not pay any attention when the book falls from her lap. Rising from the bed, padding down the hall, to the stairs, where she grips the banister. She can hear them clearly now. It is pointless though, since they are discussing the matter of the piranha she had wanted to buy. Almost as if they knew she'd be attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation. One thing, as she topped the stairs, that rang as clear as a bell in her ears.

"She scares me, Doc. She really did those things?" Barney's voice.

"Yes, and I'm sure that they won't be her last."

Emily smiled as she turned and retreated to the bedroom once more. Oh no, she wasn't done yet. She couldn't bear to disappoint her husband. 

*****


	23. Leave Your Lights On

People's hobbies are more their measures than are their jobs.

-Robert Byrne

*****

The late fall day is cool and crisp, carrying a bit of the chill of the impending winter on it still. Winter. That was a joke in itself. In a place where the trees were still green deep into December and the flowers still bloomed. Winter was supposed to conjure images of snow and freezing temperatures. Well, he could always drive up to Tahoe if he really wanted that. But winter's chill was the farthest thing from his mind as he sat on the ferry, looking out on the world through dark sunglasses. He watched the children on the stern, feeding the sea gulls bits of bread and pretzels. He saw Angel Island pass slowly through his field of vision, still deeply wooded. Then the next island, as it came into view. Stark prison walls on that stark rock of land. Alcatraz. 

He still refused to set foot on that island and he remembered that he had once meant to ask Emily if she had ever seen pelicans there. He never had, and that bothered him for some reason. Everything after that had gone to hell in a handbasket. Pazzi planning to kill her before his eyes, then kill him, in revenge for her husbands death. Emily had come out of that encounter anything but unscathed. She had never spoken about it, even now. He wondered if he should have pushed a little harder then to make her talk. She was a stubborn as he though when she didn't want to discuss things. What difference would it have made on where they were now?

One cannot change the past. He had finally succumbed to that knowledge many years too late. He had tried, had made room in Clarice for Mischa, hoping to bring her back into his life. But it wasn't the same, he realized, having the memories and having the real thing were two different things completely. And now his little Starling herself was dead, sunk deep into the Earth in eternal slumber. One red rose, the one chance for love amongst the friends. The wound was closed now, but the scar was still tender. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before leaving the thought of Clarice. She had deserved better.

Back to the present, back to the issue at hand: Emily. He was caught in what seemed to be a moral dilemma. He could no more condemn her for the murders than he could encourage her. Neither was the way it should be. To condemn her would be condemning himself. He had known from that moment in the living room when her mouth was at his throat, that she could, and someday would, kill without regret. She had restrained herself from killing him, because she had found her reflection in him. Those two words that had been uttered to her rose again in his mind. _Just alike_. And she was proving that to an extreme now. To encourage her, well… Family life had changed him, had allowed him to put aside the tendencies of his younger days. Oh, that didn't mean that he never felt the urge, but he controlled them, not wanting to risk the loss of his family. Emily seemed to be unaware of the risks, or she just didn't care.

The port was coming in closer now, the red neon letter no longer illuminated in the daytime. The clock tower rose above the docks, large in the foreground against the backdrop of the Financial District. The tower itself is two hundred thirty-five feet tall, and is modeled after the Moorish bell tower of the Seville Cathedral. It survived the great fires after the earthquake of 906 due to the intercession of fireboats pumping water from the bay. In its heyday, before the Bay Bridge was built, fifty million passengers a year passed under the bell tower and through the ferry building. Now it is only used by the few ferries that criss-cross the bay, like the one he is on today.

The ferry eventual comes in to the dock and he waits patiently as the other passengers scramble to disembark. No rush, it is easier to wait than to get crushed in the throng. Slowly he stands, turning and taking in the view of the bay he is presented with from the upper deck. He is making his way through the ferry building minutes alter, and he notes the remnants of crime scene tape that still hang, barricading one hallway. No one notices as he stops and looks down the hallway, no one knows that his wife is the one that tortured that young student. Emily, betraying his trust in her, returning to her disturbing 'hobby.' But he still is unable to condemn her. He has done worse than she.

The idle moment lasts no more then just that, a moment, and he is soon stepping out onto the Embarcadero. The boulevard is busy and the sidewalks are filled with throngs of people. He waits with the rest of them to rush across the street with the tenacity of lemmings as the crossing signal changes. Engines growl at them as they hurry across, only to pause on the median and wait to do it again. The pulse of the busy city, measured in stoplights and crosswalk signals. He walks across Justin Herman Plaza, eyeing the now dry fountain. The towers of the Embarcadero loom over him as he heads through them. His home is not far from here, and he is no hurry as he walks, although he will find some other mode of transportation to reach the crest of California Street. He needs time to think, and to plan a course of action to deal with Emily, since she is sure to kill again. It is only a question of when.

*****

It is almost sunset as the doctor climbs aboard a passing cable car, filled with tourists and a few other locals. The cars themselves are a relic of another bygone age, and have been reduced in number with the advance of technology. HE listened to the voice of the conductor as he points out sights to the visitors that pack onto the sideboards of the car. They pass Old Saint Mary's Cathedral, with its imposing brick façade on the corner of California and Grant. In irony, brothels once stood across the street from the old church, which had building materials imported from the East Coast and from China. The large inscription beneath the clock face, 'Son, observe the time and fly from evil' is said to have been directed at them. It occurs to him that with the proper change, a minister could direct Emily to do the same, since the act of murder is more than a crime, it is against the Ten Commandments.

He knew she had been raised Catholic, but had lapsed long before he entered her life. She had questioned her faith while going through Confirmation. She had been confirmed, under the watchful eyes of her aunt, but had basically abandoned the Church after that. She understood the concept that typhoid and swans all came from the same place. Death and life, as well, but he doubted that she had been intended to act as the Alpha and the Omega. His attention shifts from the conductor's tour spiel to the music coming from the boombox of the teenager sitting next to him. Carlos Santana. He recognized the music, and believed his wife had the CD. The song had never caught his attention before, but held it fast now. 

"Hey, now, all you killers put your lights on, put your lights on. Hey now, all you children, leave your lights on, better leave your lights on. Because there's a monster living under my bed, whispering in my ear. there's an angel with her hand on my head, she say I got nothing to fear. There's a darkness living deep in my soul, and its still got a purpose to serve… So let your light shine deep into my home, you gotta let me lose my nerve, don't let me lose my nerve…" 

It struck him as the precise description of his wife, and he carried it home with him, the tune running in his mind. Trickling into the walls of her room in the palace. He heard it as she greeted him at the door, and it worked its way into his fingers as he lingered at the piano late into the night. Leave your lights on. It was at that moment at the keyboard, as Bach gave way to Santana, that he knew that he had to make a decision, before she crossed the threshold and stepped into her new life completely.

*****


	24. Preperations

Torture? Well, Emily can't be killing 24/7, that just would not be conducive to good storytelling. Saavik, dear, the song featured last chapter was 'Put Your Lights On' by Carlos Santana and featuring Everlast, it is from the Santana album _Supernatural_. Tis one of my favorites. Snap Emily out of this? No, not yet. She has a few more… surprises up her sleeve.

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There was a day

When the sun did not rise,

And the people looked up

Into dark skies.

Birds did not sing

Without morning's dawn.

Children could not play

With their bright light gone.

Sun dials told no time,

And the roosters made no sound.

Time slowly lost its meaning,

Though the clock's hands went 'round.

And one by one

The stars faded away.

The moon grew so dim;

I knew it could not stay.

We were left in the dark,

But our eyes were opened wide;

We saw pairs of red lights-

The eyes of monsters, no longer forced to hide.

-_The Sun Did Not Rise_ by Laurel Fisher

*****

Sun filters through a fine haze of dust as the bed is shoved forcefully back against the wall. The air stinks of fresh paint, and the walls gleam a sanitary white. It would be nice if there were some air circulating in the room, but that is difficult with the wooden window frames being nailed shut. Bright, shiny penny nails, the heads of which at least, gleam in the sunlight. The daybed itself is pristine white, fresh from the beloved Pottery Barn. It had a trundle beneath it, although he doubted it would come of any use. The room is sparsely furnished, and besides the bed, there is a dresser, with a wide, old mirror on the wall above it; a low white bookcase, yet to be filled; and two chairs set in front of the closet that fills one wall. A lamp occupies the dresser top, and a set of sheets rests next to it. Fortunately, the sheets are not white, but instead a pale blue. He is quick in his actions as he dresses the bed.

A comforter and a blanket rest in one of the chairs, and he grabs them next, laying them atop the sheets. A large feather pillow and a couple of throw pillows complete the bed, and he steps back to look at it. All the white brilliance reminded him of an institution, but he was not trying to completely achieve that look. A check of his watch and he steps from the bedroom into the short hall to the kitchen. A bathroom and a closet occupy the doors on either side of the hall. The kitchen is immaculate, but tiny, with a small dining area adjacent to it. The oak table had a place for two, since he doubted there would ever be more than that in this residence. The kitchen is separated form the living room by a wall and an open doorway.

The living room is overwhelmed by a large couch and an old oak desk set at a right angle to it. A green shaded and brass desk lamp and a black laptop computer perch on the desk. A long white phone cord snakes from the back of the laptop and along the wall to the phone jack in the kitchen. Phone service had been established and he had relegated himself to the dial-up connection out here. There was no television in the living room, only a stereo cabinet and two speakers. An antique loveseat rest against the wall that divides the kitchen from the living room, and has a cashmere afghan draped over it. Purple the afghan, aubergine to be precise, like the eggplant his sister so dearly loved. It was a nice contrast to the ivory of the upholstery.

He rests for a moment on the loveseat, looking about the little world he has made here. Here being a tiny cabin outside Sebastopol. far enough away from civilization, but not so far if there were to be an emergency. The front windows of the cabin are open, and curtains float on the breeze. Through them, he can hear nature herself. The sighs of the redwoods that dwarf the cabin and hide it from prying eyes. Though, not that there will be many prying eyes. The cabin is set on four acres of land, backing up against the Russian River, and set a good distance back from the road. A porch runs around three sides of the cabin, and there is a rickety carport still standing nearby. For all its deceptive appearances as quaint and charming, perhaps even more than a bit rustic, it belies nothing of its true purpose.

Another look at his watch, and he decides that it has been enough for one day. Back to the bedroom, collecting a few tools that he had left on the dresser. He grasps the doorknob and pulls the door shut behind him, locking it. The door is the first hint at what he has intended this place for. Instead of the standard bedroom door, a heavy white institutional thing takes its place. A window is set in it for observation, as well as a locking slot through which things could be passed. The lock is a deadbolt, and it makes an evil and heavy _click_ as it slides home. He was prepared, as he deposited the tools into a case that sat on the kitchen counter, for her. For weeks he had almost desperately hoped that it would not come down to this. She had left him with no choice. 

Stepping onto the porch he draws keys from his pocket and locks the deadbolt there as well. A single glance back at the cabin, quiet in the coming late afternoon, as he slides into the Jaguar. If imprisonment is what it took for them to resolve her issues, then that is what he would supply. He was not going to lose his wife to the system that had incarcerated him. Unfortunately, that day was going to be upon him much sooner than he would have desired.

*****

The phone was held between her ear and her shoulder as she sat in the comfortable chair behind her great mahogany desk. The look on her face was anything but amused as she waited on hold for going on twenty minutes now. If she heard the lovely computer generated voice telling her that her call _was_ important and that she would be helped as soon as there was an available representative, well, she might just have to _kill_ someone. Funny, how that statement coming out of anyone else's thoughts would be thought of as a joke and if she said it within this household, she'd probably experience Defcon One. Finally, there was a toneless beep and the line was picked up by a _real person_.

"This is Mike, how can I help you?"

"Ah, yes, Mike, I believe you can. I just needed to place an order for a few things in your catalogue."

"Sure, can I get your name and address first?" she could hear the click of computer keys in the background, and was glad that Mike was polite. Rare reed in this world these days. She gave him all the information he needed and smiled as she did so. The catalogue sat in front of her on the desk blotter. A few of the items she was ordering were just fro the fun of it, no use other than they looked nice. The crossbow and the quarrels though… Well, she didn't know just what she would do with them yet, but she was ordering them just in case. If anything, she could keep it locked in the attic or tucked away in the closet until the need arose. She continued smiling as she read off the credit card number. True, it would have been easier to do this online, but then he could find out about it a lot quicker. This way was much more suited to her needs. As the delivery method was agreed upon and she finished her transaction Emily felt in rather high spirits. 

*****


	25. Confrontation

The garage is stark under the light from the fluorescent tubes overhead. They glitter on the chrome and the dusty exterior of the Lincoln. A reflection in the black pool of the cars pain job. A man, tied to a hand truck, which is in turn standing in a child's wading pool. Oddly, the man looks the slightest bit limp in his restrains, his head sagging against one shoulder. A faint smell of ozone and burnt flesh hangs in the air. Emily is there, looking him over and smiling. It was the last time dear little Curtis would attempt, and fail, to fix her computer. She felt no remorse for the loss of the techie's life. She had forgotten in her overzealous glee that her daughter had helped her put the fish in the pool while they were waiting for the tank to fill. A few feeder goldfish and a guppy floated belly up in the pool, having met the same fate as Kurt. 

She moves around the pool, casting an eye to the open window and glad for the breeze. Dying of carbon monoxide poisoning while she had been electrocuting Curtis had not been her idea of a pleasant afternoon. A glance at the instructions for the jumper cables and she begins to detach them from his hands as she would from a car. Bits of flesh cling to the metal alligator clamps and she notes that she'll have to find some way to remove it. Ripples bounce through the pool's surface as she bumps it with a foot. Thankfully he is attached to the hand truck. Much easier to move around, but how to get rid of this body? That was the hard part, she had decided, not the killings themselves, but the disposal of the bodies afterwards. The most unique one so far was Lisa, who, thanks to Hannibal's efforts while Emily was indisposed after her shower, was tucked away neatly in the freezer. 

Leaning in the open driver's door, Emily reached for the trunk release lever. She straightened at the noise, bumping her head on the door sill. The garage was opening, and she watched as the crack of light grew larger. Did she hit the opener in the car while she was reaching for the trunk release? No. Maybe it was malfunctioning again, which would mean that she would have to call the repairman tomorrow morning. Then she realized what the underlying noise above the sound of the screw-drive was, the unmistakable purr of a Jaguar. Fingers flew to the door opener in her car, halting the upward progress of the door and another tap started it on a downward journey again. 

Panic seized Emily as she backed out of the door and threw the bag containing the jumper cables into the trunk of the car, slamming the trunk shut. Muttered curses in three different languages as the door began to rise again. This wasn't happening! Trouser clad legs black against the light outside, lengthening into a body as the door climbed upward. The figure ducking under the door now and seeing the hand come up, thumbing the opener once more, halting the door, again, hastening its descent. Well, at least he had enough sense to close the door before confronting her. She was diving across the trunk now, scurrying to close the window. To put some distance between her and him, and perhaps find a suitable item for her defense. 

Emily's breathing is loud in the garage, and she rests a hand against the old oil powered heater under the window. He is taking in Curtis' limp body, the pool, the dead guppies and goldfish, and the open hood of the Lincoln. As if returning the jumper cables to their proper place would mislead him. Slow as his eyes leave her latest victim and find her. Her breathing still the only sound as the consider each other. His dark head drops for a moment, losing her gaze, then rises, as if he were composing himself. He was at an angle from which the roof of the car hid his lower half from her view. She didn't see the hand that dipped into his pocket and emerged with the hypodermic.

"Emily."

"Hannibal."

Deadly maroon eyes meeting the just as deadly blue-grey ones. A meeting of killers on what should be the common ground of a murder scene. 

"Who is he?" A nod at the limp body.

"Curtis. The techie who couldn't fix my computer, again." 

Hannibal nods, "Come out here Emily."

A wariness in her eyes, knowing she is a trapped animal. Briefly her thoughts drift to Mischa napping in the living room, Barney laying on the floor in the kitchen after she attacked him with the tranquilizer. A moment's consideration of his order. "Show me your hands, Hannibal."

He raises them slowly, slipping the hypodermic up his sleeve before his hands come into her view. A satisfied nod and she comes around the nose of the car. Her right hand, shielded from view by her body, closes around a vise grip wrench. Her arm drops limply to her side as she calculates her movements. It is a futile attempt, but she has to make the attempt. He doesn't understand why she needs to do this. He thinks he knows, but he doesn't. He can't, since he has long forgotten that he made her into this. He stepped from the forefront and left her to take up the fight. 

"Emily…" his voice is quiet, almost soothing as she edges around the drivers side headlight. There is about a foot and a half of space between the pool and the car's fender. Once more he is surprised at her speed and grace as she overcomes the gap between them, hand coming up in an arc with the wrench. Like Clarice and her candlestick, but Emily is not under the influence of morphine and has control over her actions. She swings towards his head and feels her wrist caught in his vise-like grip. A snap of bone is heard as he wrenches her wrist to make her lose the vise grip. Flash of surprise in both pairs of eyes, pain for two different reasons in them as well. No loss, Emily is growling and coming up with her left hand, sharp nails raking across his face. He catches her and sees the red of blood on her fingernails as he pushes her back forcefully against the Lincoln's rear door. The glass shatters in the window at the impact, but remain in place, held by the tinted window film. The car rocks as he presses forth with intent. Emily bares her teeth at him, trying to reach him once more. 

A turning of the tide momentarily, and he is once more reminded of the kitchen on Chesapeake as she pushes back against him. He is driven back a few steps and her face becomes a bit close to his throat for any real comfort. He easily overpowers her and Emily flies back against the car door again. The force of her back hitting the roofline knocks the breath out of her and she doubles over slightly. The opportunity he was looking for. Her hand is loosed while she is bent and the hypodermic slides easily into his hand. Deftly the cap is removed and is slipped into her arm. Her eyes cut to the intruding needle and she is suddenly upright. She growls once again and tenses for another drive against him. The sedative is quick, much quicker than what she used on Barney. She feels the strength in her legs waver and then the wobble as she begins to sink. Her eyes meet his right before she completes her slide to the floor. In that heart wrenching second Hannibal almost regrets having done this to her.

*****

Emily rests unconscious and restrained in the passenger seat of the Jaguar an hour later. The car itself is in the garage now, and the aftermath of her latest kill is not to be seen. The body of Curtis rests neatly wrapped in a tarp in the trunk. Dr. Lecter is inside the house making arrangements with Barney to care for Mischa while they are away. A call to the office in Larkspur puts them under the assumption that the Rinaldis are headed off for an impromptu vacation, trying to rekindle a little romance in the marriage. Hannibal'

s eyes are dark and heavy as he finally enters the garage once again and slides into the drivers seat. Not wanting to draw attention he looses the ropes that bind Emily to the leather seat. The only restraint left as he thumbs the garage door opener is the seat belt. He feels a pang of guilt as he looks at the splint on her wrist. He had indeed broken it when he had grabbed it. A promise broken, as he had sworn never to hurt his sweet, sweet Emily. He looks away and puts the Jag into reverse, easing down the driveway into the clammy San Francisco night.

*****


	26. Roller Pigeons

There were pigeons below in Market Square, as she leaned over the balcony of the hotel room in her underwear. _Underwear?_ The cool air and hastening breeze that came in off the water indicated that nightfall would be coming soon. The smell of the wharves infiltrated her nostrils, but it wasn't quite right. _It smells like a river._ She looked up across the city skyline and noted that the skies above seemed to be the most interesting shade. Another look down from the balcony as the pigeons took flight, swirling up around her. For a moment she swore they all had maroon eyes. Her gaze followed them up into the aubergine sky, alighting on one in particular. She watched it tumble over backwards in the sky, heading towards her with frightening speed. She saw it with the wide eyes of a child as it sped earthward. There was a moment of fright as it neared the balcony. She whispered a prayer that it would pull up out of its dive. It did not.

There was a sickening thud as the pigeon slammed into the balcony. She could do little more than stare at it. Finally finding herself again, she knelt to it, feeling the hard surface on her bare knees. As her hand reached out to it, it disappeared. _Gone. Like the cat._ She heard the metallic rasp bouncing around the rotunda of the Colorado Springs Carnigie Library, perfectly preserved in her memory palace. She stood there now, assaulted by the voice.

"There are shallow rollers and there are deep rollers. You can't breed two deep rollers or the offspring will roll all the way down, hit, and die. Agent Starling is a deep roller, Barney. Let us hope that one of her parents was not."

Roller pigeons. his discussion with Barney over inherited, hardwired behavior. The voice continued on with his lecture, with a few comments and questions from Nurse Barney. She could hear the pops from the well used tape. Her eyes flew around the room, looking amongst the shelves and the small tables. The rotunda is preserved in a state from the 1930s, and the bookcase are spaced like radial spokes on a wheel, positioned between the glass windows that look out towards Pikes Peak and Manitou Springs. She passed by the reading tables and chairs in a rush, seeking the tape player that she knew had to be there. Through the wrought iron decorated front doors and into another room. There it was, sitting atop a tiny square table. She raced for it, unawares of her surroundings.

Only when she reached for the stop button did it dawn on her where she was now. The blood spatters on the player, the puddle on the floor. Memphis. One of her locked rooms that she knew he shared. She was in the cage, and she timidly reached out for the bars. Cold, hard, bare. The tape stopped, ending with a loud _click_. The doors with the frosted glass windows were opening. The smell of fresh paint was carried in on the breeze that accompanied their closing. She hears her name being called. Gently and constantly, it seemed to come from a greater distance than from where her visitor stood. That maroon gaze burned into her soul, into the depths of the well there.

"What do you see, Emily?"

The voice is light, with a sing-song quality to it. She can hear herself scream as she lashes out against the bars. Tears spring to her eyes at the sharp and sudden pain in her wrist. The sing-song is repeating endlessly in her voice like a broken record. He is there suddenly, holding her tight, securing her arms to her side.

"Emily…. Wake up Emily."

Eyes wide open now, taking in deep lungfuls of air, restrained against a soft mattress. The ceiling is white, and painful to her tearing eyes. Slowly the voice loses its distance and she realizes that it is by her ear. Warm breath on the side of her face as she turns towards him. It is the first time in a long while that she sees even the slightest trace of a smile on his face, however grim. It soothes her, along with the sound of his voice. The pain, however, does not subside and pushes to the forefront of her attention. She moved her arm just slightly and gasped. An explanation was given before she had found breath to ask for one.

"You're wrist is broken, Emily. Your scream brought me in here to check on you. It seems you were intent on beating the wall with it."

_Broken wrist? How did I do that?_ "Broken?"

There was a heavy moment as he drew in a breath and looked at her. "You were swinging a vise-grip at me, Emily. I grabbed your wrist to keep you from bashing my head in. I wrenched your wrist a little too hard in my attempt to thwart you."

"Oh."_ In the garage before he slammed her back against the car. Futile was the word for her actions then._

"I would never intentionally hurt you, Emily. Even now."

_Oh, well that's nice to know. _The shadows inside twist at this knowledge, dark with glee. He cannot hurt her, but she can hurt him. "Where are we?"

"A cabin. Far removed form the city. You've gone too far, Emily. We are staying here until you have resolved your new found thirst for murder."

She glared at him and had all at once lost any thought of feeling comfortable in this room with him. Her eyes went dark and she looked to the closet doors opposite her. Another lovely stint as prisoner and him playing the noble psychiatrist. So he wanted her to tell him why, huh? She had lulled him into false security before, and she could do it again. If not, if he resisted… Well, then one of them might not leave this tidy little cabin prison alive.

*****


	27. Silent All These Years

Kudos and Scooby snacks to Talisman and Kurt. The song was 'Last Dance with Mary Jane' by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Shows what happens late at night while listening to a CD and typing a story. Okay, final chapters. Thanks for sticking with me, dear ones, it has been one hell of a ride. Okey dokey then, here we go.

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Three days and three nights. So much less than the forty days and nights spent by both Noah on his Ark and Jesus in the desert. Three days and nights, for a total of seventy-two hours. Which equated itself to a total of four thousand three hundred twenty minutes, which then equated itself to two hundred fifty nine thousand and two hundred seconds, each second being measured by a solemn tick of the clock on the bedroom wall. And not a word had been spoken by Emily in those seventy two hours. She had drawn breath, she had eaten and slept, she had visited the bathroom during those seventy two hours, but she had not spoken a word. Not even the simplest of pleasantries or comments had passed her lips. No 'Thank yous' or 'pleases' were uttered as she sat at the small dining table in the kitchen. No reaction whatsoever when Hannibal spoke to her. She had retreated far into the depths of her memory palace, content to sit in the warm afternoon sun as it poured through the windows of the library's rotunda. 

She was withdrawn and she knew it to be wearing on him. It must be a tremendous weight to carry, and she knew that he would tire of it soon. His patience was wearing thin with each passing sweep of the second hand on the clock. She could see it in his words and his actions, which were becoming clipped and brasher each time he came into her presence. She had decided against luring him into the false sense of security that had worked before. Now she wanted to expose the monster that was deep within him, make him look into the depthless pools of its eyes. So, even though it had taken seventy two hours of silence, it had been worth it. The deadbolt on the door slid back and she sat up in the bed. The door swung open and she met his eyes for the briefest of seconds before looking away at the stream of sunlight that came through her windows. If she listened hard enough, she could hear a slamming door in his palace, in one of the adjoining rooms. She looked up and realized that the sound was more real than it should be as he had also slammed the bedroom door.

Hannibal Lecter, no matter how close you are to the man, no matter how many times you have shared his thoughts, his heart, or his bed, is not a man to press. The maroon eyes are darkened from a lack of sleep and restraint. A line has been crossed, drawn in the sand, stepped over, and promptly forgotten. Emily had passed her final threshold three days back, upon her first awakening in this prison. His had been passed as he had crossed into the room today. So here they were, locked in a room little more roomier than his cell in the dungeon. It would be wiser to step into the cage of a Komodo dragon than to enter into this territory now. His movements are precise and slow as he takes seat in front of the closet. She stares at him, the eyes of a huntress stalking her prey from the brush. His eyes are equally intense, measuring every breath she drew in.

It was a battle of wills as they sat there, in absolute silence. To say that you could hear a pin drop would be a gross understatement of the situation. Hannibal waved his arm to the opposing arm chair, eyes never leaving his wife. It is not wise to divert your attention from a caged animal, especially one that has been known to kill before.

"Come sit, Emily."

It was not an offer, or a request. It was a demand, an order, barely cloaked in civil tones. Slowly, Emily unfolded herself from the bed and stood on the floor beside it. Seven steps brought her to the chair and she did not sit. She merely stood there, almost facing him, as if taunting him.

"Sit, Emily." He commanded once more. She didn't move.

"I am not a dog, Hannibal." the cold steel in her voice was as sharp as a razor. She looked down on him, perhaps for the first time seeing what it was to momentarily have the upper hand over the famed sociopath. If there had been anything holding him back, it was gone in that instant as Emily found herself thrown bodily back into the chair. It rocked backward from the force leaving a crack in the closet door. He was over her then, left forearm pressed against her throat as he lowered his face inches from hers. His right hand held her left wrist hostage against the arm of the chair. She was immobile now, not willing to further injure her right wrist, which was the only mobile part of her body to strike with. Not once, did her eyes leave his as he bore down on her with an unwavering intent. Her breath came in rasps as pressed forward.

"Do not think to tempt me, Emily. You are no longer the woman I knew. What has become of you?" The metallic rasp is even more pronounced in his whisper. Teeth bared as he waits for an answer.

"Incipit vita nuova, Hannibal." she replied. The pressure lessened enough for her to take a deep breath.

"To begin the new life."

"Glad you remember your Italian." the snide remark earned her reinstated pressure on her windpipe. He could kill her now, and she wondered if he would.

"Don't toy with me, Emily."

"You said I wasn't the woman you knew. That is correct. I am what I am today because of you."

"Because of me?"

Undaunted by the lack of air Emily continued on, ignoring his slight protest that he could have something to do with this. "My mother made me what I am, taught me what it was to be a monster. I allowed myself to taste what that was like after my father died. I tucked it away, stayed silent for all these years, until I met you. You drew the monster back out into the light, made me look at it, face it and accept it. _You_ turned me into something completely _Other_ like yourself. You forged what I was to become and I accepted."

She could see him begin to deny his actions once again, but she did not let him.

"I didn't take your life when it was offered because you and I really are just alike. You killed because you sought revenge on those who had hurt you. You saw your victims as personifications of the men who took away your sister. I sought revenge for the same reason, on those who lived along the same lines as my _mother_. I wanted revenge Hannibal, but you don't want me to have it."

The words cut him, and he pulled back enough to look at her. Something in his eyes she had seen before. That look when her mother had been told she was wrong. The look of contempt that had always accompanied Emily throughout her life. The second person in her life who had made her face her own darkness was turning on her. Just like mother. The arm was sufficiently removed from her throat now, and the grip on her wrist was the tiniest bit slack as he weighed whether she had spoken the truth. With all of her strength, Emily pushed forward from the chair. Her spontaneous movement was enough to throw him off balance and she ducked past him and grasped for the door knob. The steel door swung open as she scrambled towards the kitchen. A chef's knife sat on the counter and she lunged for it as Hannibal came into the kitchen, precious inches behind her.

Emily swung round, knife at the ready, slicing quickly the distance between them. There was no conscious thought from her as she glares at him. His voice is loud in the kitchen, over the whispering sound of the blade through the air. Scant millimeters away from him as he yells out to her.

"Emily, no!"

*****


	28. End of Days

Ummmm… Are we all still here? Everyone alive? Just needed to check before we went on. Next time we'll test the Emergency Alert System beforehand, okay? Dedications, well I don't do them often, but this one is going out to my reviewers: troesnaja, little-starling, Kurt, Lady Ayisha, Saavik, Steel, Nanci, Talisman, Claire Starling, chameleon302, LadyOfTruths, and Memor Sol Solis. Thanks for the words of encouragement, threats, and just being here throughout this thing. Really huge Super Big Gulp sized thanks to my volunteers: Chameleon, Troesnaja, and Kurt. Oh, and Steel, we're nearing the end so I can't throw you in here, but I'd be keeping an eye out in the next story. Perhaps we can arrange a little trip to Trinidad, CO for you as well.

*********************************************************************************

The afternoon sun glints oddly off the knife as it cuts through the heavy air of the kitchen. It meets with resistance as she hears her name ring out above the whickering whisper of the knife edge. Soft flesh rendered in an instant that cannot be retracted no matter how much we wish it. It is at the sight of the torn skin and the ripped shirt that she realizes this. It is as the metallic stink of warm blood fills the air that she realizes this. She cannot release the knife as it continues on its path of destruction. Only once it is free from the resisting flesh does it loose from her hand, sent flying with force into the wall above the sink. It trembles in the drywall, a score across the wall where its left its mark. She has never seen pain like this in his eyes before now and she cannot stand it. She watches as he crumples at her feet, hand pressed to the rent flesh. The trail on the wall is marked with his blood as she looks from it to the man on his knees before her.

"No!" the cry is sharp and sudden, hurting her throat and her ears, piercing into her very depths and shattering the mirror that lies within. Her legs are gone from beneath her as she falls to the floor, reaching out to him. She cannot stop looking into his eyes, seeing the pain there. He grunts and she reaches out to him with trembling hands. her fingers fly to his face, across his cheek and the parted lips. Down, to the long bloody path that marks his chest. The white linen button-down is rapidly blossoming crimson. She feels something hot and wet on her cheeks, a burning in her eyes. With a bloody hand she wipes the tears away, yet they continue to come. Her mind forces her into her emergency training from med school, thankfully before her body shuts down on her. Emily is torn as she steps past him in to the bathroom. There is a first aide kit under the sink. Well prepared, and she finds as she pries the plastic casing open. Hannibal had planned for a number of eventualities and she was thankful for that. 

Hannibal looks rather pale now as Emily comes back into the kitchen. The tears are still running down her face and interfering with her vision as she gently eases him to lay on the floor. With professional ease she tugs the shirt away and pressed a towel against the wound she had caused. She removed the towel and examined the cut. No more than in inch deep, cutting diagonally across his chest at a slight angle. Oh god, she only caught him with the tip of the knife. It was a relief and she managed a deep breath as she began to dig through the first aide kit. Unfortunately, the deep breath triggered a series of hiccups as she began to tend to the wound. She kept an eye on his reactions as she worked, deftly suturing the wound and bandaging it. The hiccups made her a bit nervous as she worked and she was mentally cursing herself for it. She sat back on her heels after she was done, still trying to blink tears away and fight her hiccups. There was blood on the linoleum of the kitchen, and all over her hands. She knelt there for an eternity, watching his face, listening to his breathing as he lay there with his eyes closed. 

Pain, he was still in pain, and she had just done all of this without anesthetic. She began berating herself for that as well as she dug through the kit again. Every eventuality, and she knew there had to be some in there, since he had given her some after she had bashed her wrist into the wall. There! The small vile of morphine and a syringe. She didn't know that he was watching her now as she measured out a dose. He had closed his eyes again as she turned back and bent to slip the needle into his arm. As she was recapping the syringe she felt a hand on her arm. It did her no good and she jumped up backing hard against the fridge. The hiccups which had just abandoned her came back full force. Sobs rose in her throat, choking off anything that she might have had to say.

"Help me to the couch, Emily." he whispered and she nodded. The floor had to be rather uncomfortable. With great care she escorted him into the living room. She sat on the coffee table looking at him as he lay on the couch. He noted that she avoided his eyes.

"Emily." she turned away at the sound of his voice issuing forth her name. "Emily, please, look at me." Slowly, the head turned. There was blood streaked across her cheek, along with a few strands of hair stuck in it. Tears continued to track down her face as she stared at him.

"I was not going to condemn you for killing anyone, Emily. I understand what you did, even if I was refusing to acknowledge that. If you had waited…"

She was on her feet, hands balled into fists at her sides. "But I was going to kill _you_. Do you not understand that?! It didn't matter anymore, I saw my mother in you and I was going to kill you so that I could kill her!"

"You didn't kill me though, Emily."

"That's not the point!" she protested, choking back sobs that were threatening to overtake her. Her body trmebled violently as she sat before him. She seemed so much smaller in that moment.

"It is though. Look inside yourself, Emily, and tell me what you see."

And she did. She listened to him for the first time that day and turned her thoughts inward. Standing there in the Carnigie Library, and finding nothing but silence. Walking slowly towards the doors that she knew led to her own imprisonment, her own cell in Memphis, where she knew the shadows of the past waited for her. The blood stained floors that held the memories of her victims, the walls that echoed with the lambs' screams. Slowly she went towards them, reaching for the doors with the forsted glass windows. Her own dungeon, a room she shared with him, had made her own. She drew a deep breath as she reached for the handle in the silent hall. It was open then, and she stepped inside.

The cage was still there, there was still blood on the floors, but something was different. Timid steps across the room, wood floor polished against bare feet. She reached for the door to the cell, which stood open before her. It creaked on its hinges as she touched it and she knew. She was no longer imprisoned by her shadows. It had been so long since she had tasted freedom. Silence in the Memphis room, as she stared at the cage. Footsteps quiet behind her, and an arm coming up around her shoulders.

"Free, Emily."

When she opened her eyes she found herself kneeling next to the couch, her head resting near his as she cried. 

"What do you see, Emily?" the question that had been asked so many times of her. Emily wiped away the tears and raised herself to look deep into his. Pinpricks of red fly towards his center as she watches, looking to the mirror that lies inside him. The reflecting pool shows her what she expects, a reflection of herself. 

"I see me."

"You've learned control, Emily. You've released yourself and have dominated your darkness. Yet, as you can see, you have not lost anything. I am still in you and you are still in me."

"Just alike." she smiled, for the first time in this house.

"Just alike." he agreed. "Incipit vita nuova. And not down the path of darkness."

"Yes, I've a new life, Hannibal." 

*****

FIN

Not the best ending, IMHO, but it works. (Kinda like the ending to Hannibal. Not entirely satisfying, but merely a way of tying up loose ends. No offense, Tom.) Hope you all enjoyed. Until next time.

-Sam


End file.
